ALDE 11 BROOK: 



A COILECTION OF 



FANNY FORESTER'S 



VILLAGE SKETCHES, POEMS, ETC. 



/ 

MISS EMILY CHUBBUCK. 



N TWO VOLUM 

VOL. 



ELEVEA^TH EDITION. 
REVISED, WITH ADDITIONS. 

/ 

BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 

M DCCC LVI. 






Entered according lo Act of Confess, in the year 1846, bf 

WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY. 

la the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



VaW XNai.AHD TTFS . 



TO 

HIM WHO IS HENCEFORTH TO BB 

MY GUIDE THROUGH LIFE, ITS SUNLIGHT AND ITS GLOOM, 

THESE FEW LITTLE FLOWERS, 

GATHERED BY THE WAYSIDE BEFORE WE HAD MET, 

ARE HALF-TREMBLINGLT, BUT MOST AFFECTIONATELY, 

DEDICATED. 

MAY THEIR PERFUME BE GRATEFUL J 

THEIR FRAGILITY BE PARDONED ; 

AND 

HEAVEN GRANT THAT NO UNSUSPECTED POISON MAT BB 

FOUND LURKING AMONG THEIR LEAVES ! 

FAWKY FORESTER. 



LETTER FROM THE WRITER TO THE PUBLISHERS, 

AS A 

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 



To Messrs. Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. : — 

Dear Sirs: — The copy of Alderbrook which you were so kind as to for- 
ward, reached us some weeks since ; and really it came to me, in the midst 
of my new associations, like a spectre from the world of the antediluvians. 
It seemed scarcely possible, as I turned over leaf after leaf, that I could ever 
have been conversant with such scenes — scenes in which not only the human 
face, btt everything, down to the little bird and flower, were so utterly unlike 
those, which are here daily becoming more and more familiar. It is aston- 
ishing how many years may be lived in one. 

I send you a list of corrections for a new edition. The poem entitled " The 
Weaver," I re-wrote soon after leaving Boston ; — please admit the emen- 
dations. 

Of the various articles which the book contains, I am the least satisfied 
with " Ida Ravelin ;" because it verges too closely on a class of writings just 
now somewhat mischievously fashionable in America. Beside, it is the only 
article written without "aim or object;" and, I think, the only one which 
has no foundation in reality. One of the last things whichi wrote before 
leaving America, was the " Angel's Pilgrimage ;" and, as it properly belongs 
to this collection, I should like to see it substituted for " Ida Ravelin."* 

Accompanying this, you will receive several articles wiich should have 
been in the poetical list of the first edition. One of the pieces formerly ap- 
peared in the Knickerbocker Magazine ; two or three in other periodicals, 
and some have never been published at all. 

While I have been telling you these things, and especially while copying 
the old poems, memory has been practising some very pleasing illusions ; so 
that I seemed to be revisiting my old haunts. But now I am at home again 
— talking across the ocean to a world which begins already to gather shad- 
ows about it ; and I must once more repeal the adieu to Alderbrook — a 
final farewell. E. C. J. 

Maulmain, Dec, 1847. 

• *We have taken the liberty to retain the story here referred to, as the objection 
brought against it by the author is more than balanced by the graceful beauty of style 
and admirable spirit in which it is written. The piece intended by Mrs. Judson as a 
tubstitute, is now printed as additional matter to volume second. 

W. D. T. &. CO. 



OF THE FIRST VOLUME 



Grace Linden, 7 

CLINGIN& TO Earth, 73 

Aspiring to Heaven, 74 

Underbill Cottage, 75 

Little Molly White, 82 

My Old Playmate, 104 

OtJR May, 116 

The Weaver, 128 

Save the Erring, 131 

My Uncle Stilling, 151 

NicKiE Ben, 170 

Where are the Dead? 185 

The Young Dream, 187 

The Bank Note, 208 

To my Sister in Heaven, 234 

Ally Fisher, 237 

Edith Ray, 248 

Kitty Coleman, 252 

Robert Flemming, or " What that Boy did come to at last," 253 

To my Mother, 275 

April, 277 

A Wish, 278 

To an Intant, 278 

The Old Man— a Fact, 279 

Grandfather, 281 

The Dying Exile, 284 

1# 



ALDERBROOK. 



GRACE LINDEN. 

FOUR AGES IN THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN WOMAN. 



CHAPTER I. EIGHT. 

" This will be quite pleasant, after all, mother — quite pleas- 
ant. This nice little room is just the place for me. We will 
train a vine over the window, and my books shall be upon the 
table close by — " 

" We shall need the table noAV, my daughter. Your fa- 
ther thinks we can take two boarders, though for my part 1 
see no place lo put them," and the mother cast an anxious, 
troubled glance about the apartment. 

" Two boarders ! It -will come hard upon you, mother." 

" Oh no, dear, no ! Not so hard, Abby, as upon the poor 
children. I cannot bear the idea of their being shut up the 
livelong day — stifled for the want of pure air — work, work, 
working every moment, till their little limbs are ready to drop 
oflf with pain. It is horrible to me, Abby ! " 

The poor woman, as she spoke, shuddered at the sad pic- 
ture which needed not the coloring of a mother's imagination. 
For a moment the pale lips of the girl trembled, and a tear 
quivered in her eye ; but, with a strong effort she suppressed 
the emotion, and replied cheerfully. It was certainly, (so said 
the sympathizing Abby,) a hard thing for the poor children to 



8 GRACE LINDEN. 

be shut away from the sunshine ; but she was sure the labor 
would be light ; Mr. Russel promised that ; and if it was 
found in any way injurious to health, or even spirits, a change 
of some kind must of course be made. " It is only a trial, 
dear mother," she added, smiling. 

"My life has been all trials," was the desponding reply, 
and the mother might have added, that she knew one awaited 
her harder to bear than all the 'others. 

The life of Mis. Linden had, indeed, been one of severe 
trials ; of sufferings and sorrows untold, and scarce imagined 
by her delicately nurtured country-women ; for, thanks to the 
chivalrous spirit of America, her Avomen are her jewels. But 
in the midst of all her trials, Mrs. Linden had never till now 
despaired. Now want, absolute want, stared her in the face. 
She had, as she believed, immolated her children ; and a dark 
unhoping midnight had settled upon her prospects and theirs. 

The changes of fortune, common in America, would scarcely 
be credited by a dweller in the old world. There, men must 
necessarily be, in a great degree, what they are born and what 
their fathers were ; but here, each individual takes his destiny 
in his own hands, and no human power, no law of conven- 
tionalism, often still more oppressive, interferes with what he 
wills. It rests v.dth himself and the great Governor whether 
he sit down with the honorable of the land, or droop in an 
almshouse, or crouch, and grovel, and coil himself in a kennel. 

Mr. Linden had spent his youth in the city of Boston, 
where, on the death of his father, he became sole proprietor 
of an extensive mercantile establishment. When in the full 
tide of prosperity he married the daughter of an ex-governor 
of his native state. Soon, however, the fabric of his fortune 
began to crumble. It was like the melting of a snow toy in 
the spring, gradually and imperceptibly wasting away until 
all was gone. This change of fortune could be attributed 
neither to extravagance nor vice. It was simply miscalcula- 
tion, mismanagement ; a lack of energy and perseverance, 
joined with a low estimate of the worth of money, save at the 
moment when it was needed. Men said, Mr. Linden had no 



GRACE LINDEN. y 

hisiness talent. He struggled a while, but quite ineffectually, 
and then he gave up all and removed to anoljier state. In the 
interior of New York, another effort was made, but it was 
only to live ; and so year after year, year after year rolled on, 
and found them struggling still. 

The father of Mrs. Linden commenced life as a New Eng- 
land farmer. Without well considering the disastrous conse- 
quences to his pecuniary affairs, (for the people of democratic 
America are quite too wise to support the honors they deign 
to confer,) he accepted several offices of trust, and for one 
term presided as the governor of his native state. This was 
the death-blow to his laudable ambition; for, finding his 
purse drained, his land, and even the house in which he was 
bom, mortgaged, he declined a second nomination. His fami- 
ly consisted entirely of daughters ; and so, though his exer- 
tions enabled him to protect them from want, he was quite 
unable to afford assistance to those removed from his care. 

Abby Linden, the eldest daughter of the immigrants, 
had a very indistinct recollection of large, airy rooms and ele- 
gant furniture ; a moment of terror when her father threw 
himself upon the sofa and groaned aloud, while her mother 
wept and conjured him to be comforted, was more strongly 
impressed upon her memory. After events were spread out 
on her chart of the past in too deep colors to be forgotten ; 
for, when sorrow came, the child was made the mother's 
friend and confidante, and from that moment she had never 
ceased to sympathize, cheer, and even advise. Abby had la- 
bored too. With her little straw bonnet tied closely under her 
chin, and her basket on Jier arm, she had for years gone every 
I morning to the lov/, uncomfortable district school-house, and 
won over the rebellious spirits there to obey her. And then, 
when night came, she would walk two weary miles ; not loi- 
i tering under the solemn old forest trees, where it would have 
[ been her delight to linger ; but hurrying onward to perform 
I another task with her needle, and again another over her 
i books, before she retired for the night. But things were 
i changed now, and the darling, idolized eldest daughter, the 



10 GRACE LrNDEIN. 

companion, the friend, the all that a mother's heart could 
desire to love and rest upon, was gradually but surely going 
do^vn to tlie dead. Her bright sparkling eye, her hollow burn- 
ing cheek, her faltering footsteps, her frail figure, slightly 
bended, and her thin transparent hand, all told a tale tliat filled 
a mother's bosom with anguish. Till now, what with the 
eldest daughter's little salary and the proceeds of the mother's 
ever busy needle, despite the father's small bargains, by which 
he was sure to lose more than he had been able to gain for 
weeks before, the family had contrived to live in comparative 
comfort. But now that poor Abby was confined within doors, 
she could only advise and cheer. The other children were 
yet too young to be useful. Francis, a bright boy of twelve, 
and " the little girls," two fair, slender creatures of eight and 
six years, were all that the grave had left. Small debts ac- 
cumulated, and finally credit was refused. What could be 
done ? Poor Abby revolved the subject in her mind night and 
day, and finally she ventured to propose a last resource. She 
told her mother that factory labor was respectable in Amer- 
ica ; indeed none but respectable people could gain employ- 
ment in these establishments — there was light work in them 
expressly for children — Frank and Grace were old enough 
to be employed, and Lizzy might be sent to school. For her 
part, the doctor had spoken very encouragingly of her case, 
and while the warm weather continued she might make her- 
self very useful. She would teach Frank and Grace WTiting 
and arithmetic, and see tliat the childi-en's clothes were in 
order, and possibly she might be able to do a little extra sew- 
ing herself. All this had cost poor Abby long nights of 
weeping ; for she had looked on a side of the picture that she 
did not attempt to describe ; but now the proposition was made 
so cheerfully and confidently, that it received but slight oppo- 
sition. Indeed, the father, from constant discouragement, had 
grown almost indifferent ; he was sure that fate had nothing 
worse in store for tliem ; and the mother had been too much 
accustomed to rely upon the daughter's judgment, to take a 
fair survey of the subject until it was too late. But when 



GRACE LLNDKN. 



she looked on the long narrow building, with its dingy walls, 
and doors which received their ebony blackness from the soiled 
fingers of the laborers, and thought of her tender children 
being immured there all through the pleasant summer days 
she had well nigh preferred beggary — beggary in the open 
air, the fresh green fields, beneath the broad laughing heav- 
ens — to this life-crushing imprisonment. As for Frank, he 
whispered mysteriously in his little sister's ear of running 
away ; hinted that his mother was a very cruel woman to 
shut them up so ; pouted over his fishing-rod ; examined the 
edge of the little axe so well accommodated to the strength 
of his arm that he had been able to use it for several years ; 
and then boasted of the mighty exploits he would perform 
when once free from his mother's control. But Grace had a 
heart all sunshine. She was a genuine honey-gatherer, and 
she made all about her sip of the same flowers with herself. 
There certainly was, she OAvned, a something very prison-like 
about the old factory, " but then tliink of the ten shillings a 
week, Frank I " she would add, triumphantly. 

" Two dollars, you mean, Grace." 

" Yes, you can earn two dollars, and so will I before long. 
Oh, it is so nice to be earning something for mother and poor 
sister Abby. Don't you think so, Frank ? " 

But the first morning that Grace looked into the dark, dirty 
factor)'-, with its strange machinery, making noises that fright- 
ened and almost distracted her ; its greasy blackened walls 
and disagreeable smells, the sunshine of her heart was well- 
nigh overshadowed. She clung close to her father's hand, 
avoiding as much as was in her power a nearer approach to 
the machinery, and looking askance at every pillar, as if she 
doubted whether anything in that strange place could remain 
stationary. Grace trembled more and grew still paler as she 
looked upon the faces of the • laborers. So many strangers 
she had never seen together before, and their faces, all be- 
grimmed with dye from off the wool, presented features any- 
thing but attractive. As she turned away and chmg closely 
to her father's arm, a boy darted before her, grinning and 



12 



CJKACE LLNDEN. 



throwing himself into various attitudes, evidently on purpose 
to alarm her. 

Oh, that long deep breath as she once more stepped fonli 
into the free air ! How it relieved her ! And then how licr 
little bosom swelled, as she thought of days, and weeks and 
mouths, perhaps years in that same place ! She looked up 
into her father's face as if for a word of encouragement, of 
hope, but it was darkened with gloom. Grace was fright- 
ened, and trembled more than ever. The noise of the ma- 
chinery — the grating, crashing, thundering, were still in her 
cars. Again she saAV those besmeared faces staring at her, 
and saw the sickly, yellow light struggling through windows 
dim with blackness, and oil and filth, and flaunting \vith the 
long wreath-like cob-webs, hung with black wool dust, accu- 
mulated from that which constantly filled the air, she would 
soon be compelled to breathe, from early morning to the set- 
ting of the sun. That first sight of her neAV abode had cast 
a spell upon her young, gay spirit ; it had scared away its 
joyousness ; and little Grace Linden, finding the bird-like 
melody of her soul hushed in gloom, might become prema- 
turely old, careworn before her time. Now, she hurried away 
from her father before any one had seen her ; and, crouched 
in an obscure corner of the unceiled chamber, with her apron 
thronm over her head, and her face resting on her knees, she 
sobbed and sobbed, until her little strength yielded to her first 
overpowering grief, and she found rest in sleep. 

A few days found Grace Linden all ready for her labor ; a 
neat cap, fitted by Abby's careful fingers, confining the bright 
curls that had been accustomed to Avander freely about her 
shoulders, and a bro-\vn linen apron, reaching from chin to 
ankle, enveloping her graceful little figure. The child 
laughed at the oddity of her own appearance, heavy as her 
heart felt at the moment ; and Lizzy clapped her little hands 
and outlaughed hsr sister. Frank, too, joined, half in vexa- 
tion, half to show that he was not vexed. Abby smiled en- 
couragingly, and crushed with her thin hand a tear that was 
forcing its way among her long, dark eye-i^shes , and Mrs. 



GRACE LINDEN. 13 

Linden turned to the window and concealed her face among 
the snowy folds of muslin. As "for the husband and father, 
he was none the less to be pitied that he had neither tears nor 
words. He lacked the self-sustaining power that to his wife 
and daughter had been the gift of adversity. With a full 
share of intellectuality, morbidly sensitive, yet fully conscious 
of his deficiency in all the attributes that make up the char- 
acter, his whole life had been but a continued nightmare 
dream — a striving to do, while a dead numbness seemed to 
settle upon every limb and faculty. Now, unless something 
of importance roused him, he seemed in a continued reverie, 
utterly regardless of everything passing around him. And 
this was a moment when the whole past, the present, and the 
dark, dark future, all together, stared him in the face. He 
could not bear it j and for a whole week did he shut himself 
in his room refusing to admit even the gentle Abby to console 
him. At first, Grace thought her work ver}- easy ; and the 
ambition consequent upon learning something new, made her 
foiget to look at the walls that had so much inspired her hor- 
ror. A long, low table was behind, covered with a cloth, 
which, by rollers at each end, was kept creeping slowly on- 
ward ^\^th its light layer of vrooUen rolls. These, Grace was 
to take up by handfuls and fasten, one by one, ta the ends of 
those extending douTi an inclined plane before her, covered in 
the same manner with a moveable cloth. These rolls, in 
their turn, were fastened to spindles behind the plane, and a 
man, with a low forehead, smaU peering eyes, and a bushy 
beard quite innocent of clipping, turned a crank, at the same 
lime walking backward, until the wool was drawn out into a 
thick thread, afterwards to be spun into a finer one. Grace 
had no opportunity'- to falter in her task ; for the man kept up 
his steady monotonous tramp, tramp, tramp — turn, turn, turn, 
until her little head grew giddy, and she found a moment's 
pause to mend a broken thread, an inconceivable relief. The 
boy, too, whose grimaces had so frightened her on the day of 
her first visit, was close beside her, supplying the carding ma 
chine \vith wool ; and he seemed inclined to take advantage 0/ 
2 



14 GRACE LINDEN. 

her timidity, thrusting his hideous face, marked as it was with 
black, before her at every opportunity. 

Oh, how her heart leaped when the heavy strokes of the 
dinner-bell sounded from the belfry, and all the machinery 
stopped in an instant ! And how bewildered she seemed at 
the strange silence, till some half dozen persons about her 
burst into a loud fit of laughter ! Then Frank came and took 
her by the hand, and they hurried home together, so delighted 
with the moment's respite that Mrs. Linden was delighted too, 
and thought the poor children might be happy after all. But 
the afternoon — oh, how long it was ! Grace thought it 
would never end. Her little fingers, from constant rubbing 
their backs upon the rolls to fasten them together, began to 
bleed ; her head felt like bursting, for it seemed as though the 
machinery was constantly grating against her brain ; and her 
feet ached till she thought the bones had certainly perforated 
the flesh. That night, poor Abby kissed and carefully bound 
up the wounded fingers, and took the little feet soothingly be- 
tween her hands, and talked of brighter days, and sung with 
her faint, soft voice, little hymns, until, ill able as she was to 
bear the weight, the child nestled in her bosom, and slept as 
only those who love and labor can. 

Week after week passed by, and though Jittle Grace Lin- 
den's feet ached less, her heart ached more. Dick Grouse, 
tlie malicious machine-tender, became an object of absolute 
terror to her ; it seemed his delight to torment her by every 
means in his power ; and though the man turning the crank 
often defended her, it did not lessen her fears. She trembled 
when he looked at her during the day, and at night dreamed 
that he was an evil spirit dragging her away from her mother 
and Abby, to a place of horrible darkness. The trees bud- 
ded and leaved; flowers bloomed and faded, leaving their 
places to brighter flowers still ; the brooks frolicked and jostled 
their tmy drops together ; and the birds answered back from 
ten thousand fresh green coverts with startling bursts of glad- 
someness. All this passed, and Grace Linden, the darling 
little woodland fairy, that might have claimed the flowers as 



GRACE LINDEN. 15 

sisters, and the birds as chatty friends and playmates, scarce 
looked upon the laughing- sunlight. True, on a Saturday 
afternoon, she was free two hours before sunset ; free as the 
winds of heaven and almost as wild. She laughed, and sang, 
and shouted, and laughed again, to catch the ringing echo of 
her own voice, as its music was caught up and prolonged by 
the bold bluff just over the river. Then she would fling her- 
self upon the turf, and nestle close to the ground to smell its 
freshness ; and at last, when the hour for returning homeward 
could be no longer delayed, she would load her little arms 
with all that was green, and beautiful, and fraught with life, 
because sister Abby, too, loved the things of summer. But 
Grace grew pale and thoughtful. A sensation of heaviness, 
as though neither mind nor body had strength to support its 
o^vn weight, crept over her. She was sad, as though some 
great sorrow had passed above her and left an immoveable 
shadow. August came, with its warm, sultry days, and 
brought no relief. It had now become a habit with Grace to 
droop her eyelids heavily upon her wan cheek, as though she 
would thus shut away the pain from her temples ; and when- 
ever her hand was at liberty, to press it against her side. 
Poor Grace ! 

One morning, as little Grace Linden happenea to glance 
upward from her work, she observed a fine, spirited boy of 
some fourteen summers watching her languid motions with 
an air of interest. He went away on being observed ; but 
his tour through the -cleaner and pleasanter rooms above, was 
soon made, and he returned to the carding-room. He looked 
around and whistled a little, and approached the quarter where 
Grace stood, by studied evolutions. But once there, he could 
not well be accused of that most unboyish of all traits, bash- 
fulness. 

" I say, Sliggins," he called out, authoritatively, " why don't 
you stop that tramp and let this little girl have a minute's 
rest ? " The man at the crank gave a knowing wink with 
the left eye, and jogged on as before, while Grace cast a look 
of wonder, not unmixed with gratitude on the daring intruder. 



16 GRACE LINDEN. 

That look was quite enough for the boy, for, without waiting 
a farther consultation, he marched direct to the carding-ma- 
chine and threw the band from the wheel. 

" There, Sliggins ! Look'ee, Mr. Machine-tender, you will 
be glad of a rest, I dare say, so snuggle down on the wool, 
and mind you sleep fast, my boy." Dick Grouse leered at 
Grace over his shoulder, and drawing near, whispered some- 
thing that made her utter a suppressed scream of terror; 
then, dancing for a moment with malicious satisfaction, and 
rubbing his hands gleefully, he betook himself to a pile of 
wool. 

" Rest ! Oh, yes, Master Hal, rest never comes amiss to 
factory folks ; but your father moughn't like it quite so well," 
said Sliggins, good-naturedly, at the same time seating him- 
self on a roll of satinet and resting both elbows on his 
knees. ' Without paying any attention to this answer, Henry 
Russel busied himself with arranging a comfortable seat for 
Grace ; who, without knowing whether to be grateful or not 
for a display of power characteristic of the boy, even though 
for her benefit, mechanically availed herself of his officious- 
ness. 

" Is your name Grace ? " inquired the boy, " is that what 
Sliggins called you ? " 

" Yes." 

" Grace — Grace — Gracey ! that 's it I that 's a pretty nick- 
name ! I like nick-names, don't you ? " 

Grace was not quite sure, for she had always thought nick- 
names were something bad ; but she was certain that Gracey 
was not bad; and then she thought of Abby, and Frank, 
and Lizzy, and she said " Yes," again. 

" Then you must call me Harry, or Hal, or Hank — though 
I think Harry a little the prettiest for a girl to speak, don't 
you ? " 

Again Grace said " Yes." 

" "Well, I shall be here all the vacation — six weeks; and 
I '11 come do\vn e ery day and stop the machine, and make 
Sliggins give you a rest. Would n't you like that, Gracey ? " 



GRACE LINDEN. 17 

Grace felt like saying yes, again, and blessing this wonder- 
ous magician with all her heart ; but she remarked, instead, 
"Mr. Sliggins said your father wouldn't like it." 

" Poh ! he likes everything that I do — for, you see, I don't 
come home but once a year, and then it would n't become him 
to be cross to me." 

Grace thought it would n't become anybody to be cross to 
such a good-natured boy ; and, as this thought was comhig 
up from her heart, (the source of little girls' thoughts,) sh? 
could not avoid a glance towards the quarter where the two 
eyes of Dick Grouse were peering out from the wool — and 
then she shuddered and involuntarily drew near her new 
friend. Harry had followed the direction of her eyes, and 
remarked the shudder. 

" I don't think that 's a very good boy, Gracey ? " 

Grace made no answer, but she stole another glance at the 
wool-pile. 

" Halloo there, fellow ! " shouted Harry, " turn your big 
starers the other way, if you can't shut them." 

" Oh don't, don't ! " whispered Grace, seizing his ^vrist in 
alarm. " He 's a dreadful boy, HaiTy, and I don't know what 
he would do if you should make him angry ! " 

Harry only laughed and shouted still louder, " Do you hear, 
Blackey ? " 

Dick dropped his head, and Grace, evidently relieved, inter- 
posed : " He can't help getting black in this dirty place ; but 
if he would n't mark that black ring around his eyes, and 
make up such awful faces, and tell me such horrible stories, 
too." 

" He 's a bad boy, Gracey, I know he is, and I '11 tell father 
all about it — he will make him walk straight. Father will 
employ nobody that is not good ; for he says that would make 
factories in this country almost as bad as they are in England. 
He shall hear all about this mean Dick Grouse ; and then, if 
the fellow don't look out, he will have to clear. To think of 
his being hateful to you, and you so nice and good ! " 

"Oh, no! he don't do anything to me — anything much, 
2* 



18 GRACE LINDEN. 

I mean. Mr. Sliggins \\dll not let him strike me any more, 
and he says he shall not pinch me and pull my hair, but Dick 
does that so slily that nobody finds him out." 

" Why don't you tell ? " 

" It scared me dreadfully to see him and Blr. Sliggins quar- 
rel, and it makes Dick tell me worse stories when nobody 
hears him. Oh ! I would rather have him pinch me — ten 
times rather, than hear those terrible things ! they make me 
dream so badly. I wish you tended tlie machine, Harry — I 
don't mean I \A-ish you were poor and had to do it, but it 
would be verj' nice to have some one here that was kind and 
good-natured all the time." 

Harry thought it would be very nice, too, and almost wished 
that his father would let him leave school for the purpose, 
Grace, however, assured him that she would rather have the 
company of bad Dick Grouse, than that he should do such a 
thing. To this, Harrj- responded verj' generously ; and so a 
half hour passed in just the most agreeable and childish chat 
in the world. At tlie end of this time, Harr)' started up wdth 
a loud " hurrah ! " threw the belt upon the wheel of the ma- 
chine ; buried Dick Grouse in the wool ; gave the roll of 
cloth a push, which made Sliggins turn a quite unintentional 
somerset; and then, with a hearty laugh, in Avhich Grace 
joined quite as heartily, and Sliggins uproariously, took an 
abrupt departure. 

The next morning, true to his promise, Harrj^ Russel was 
at the factor}^ ; but he told Grace that his father was not quite 
pleased with his stopping the machine, and so he would do a 
better thing than that. She should teach him to splice the 
roUs, and he would help her all day. " But why do you 
work in the factory ? " he inquired, looking into her face very 
earnestly. "If it were not for that ugly cap and this queer 
apron you would be ver}^ pretty." 

Grace thought *he cap that sister Abby made could n't be 
ugly, and she said so. Harry admitted that it looked well 
enough ; but he had had a glimpse of the curls peeping out 
at tlxe side, and they looked much better. 



GRACE LINDEN. 19 

*' But why," he continued, pertinaciously, " why do you 
work in the factor}', Gracey ? To be sure I think it is about 
as good as moping in the corner, the way most girls do ; but 
don't you like running in the fields and hunting birds' nests, 
and would a'l you like to see me fish, Gracey ? " 

Grace cou.d not answer. She was choking with tears ; 
for she thought of the summer previous, when she had tripped 
it by Frank's side along the borders of the brook, wallowed 
in the rich clover, made little bouquets of the field daisy and 
queen of the meadow, and tested fortune by holding the but- 
tercup beneath her brother's chin. Hany's words had recalled 
all this ; and the tears came crowding into her eyes, and her 
head drooped upon her bosom, until she was startled by an 
angry exclamation from Sliggins. 

" Poh, Sliggins ! " said the merry voice of Harry, " never 
mind if a few rolls did run in I It will rest your arm to 
mend them. You needn't look so cross, old fellow I Only 
wait a little, and Gracey and I will keep you jogging ! " 

As Harry grew more expert in his new business, the two 
children had more time for talking ; and at last he succeeded 
in extracting from Grace the cause of her working in the 
factory. He declared it a sin and a shame, that aU people, at 
least aU good people, couldn't have just as much money as 
they wanted. As for Grace, she should have the ten shillings 
a week, and she should not work either. He would speak to 
his father about it that very day, for his father was a good 
man and had oceans of money. Then they would have rare 
times, for he assured her, in confidence, that the girls at Fac- 
tory Huddle were just the stupidest set he ever saw; and 
there was not one that knew what fun meant but her. 

This was a happy day for Grace ; she had been assisted, 
and amused, and encouraged ; indeed, she had quite forgotten 
to count the hours, and was comparatively but slightly 
fatigued. But better than all, Dick Grouse, though there was 
a world of malice in his eye, had not ventured to play her a 
single trick since morning, when Harry had duly punished 



20 GRACE LINDEN. 

him for an attempt at one; and for this she was grateful 
to her new champion in proportion to her former fears. 

The next morning Harry Russel appeared full half an hour 
earlier than on tlie preceding day, bringing with him a little 
package of linen, which he said was to be made into an apron 
like the one Grace wore. His soiled cuffs and collar had 
given his mother an inkling of his new occupation ; but when 
Grace suggested that it Avas wrong to come there at all in 
opposition to his mother's wishes, he laughed outright. 
" Mother never minds what I do," said he, " unless I get into 
what she calls bad company. To think of your being bad 
company, Gracey ! She laughs at my tricks at school with 
the rich boys, but if I have anything to say to the poor ones, 
she scolds me and teases father about it from morning till 
night. Oh ! it is rare fun to get into company with some of 
tiiese ragamuffins, and make her believe I like them. But 
then I suppose it is wrong to. plague her ; if you think so, 
Grace, I '11 never do it any more, even if she is queer." 

Grace assured him that it was very wrong ; but still she 
Avas sure she was not bad company, and pouted very prettily 
upon the occasion, till Harry assured her he would stay at the 
factory all the time, just to show that he dared do it. Then 
she begged of him not to disobey his mother, and intimated 
that she was not quite sure of its being right for her to make 
the apron at all. 

" Bless your heart, Gracey ! " cried the boy, opening his 
eyes wide in astonishment, " my mother never approves of 
anything. I am sure I never obeyed her a half dozen times 
in my life. Why, don't you know she 's a lady, a real Jine 
lady, and not a sensible woman, like your mother, Grace? 
I 'm sure I should always obey your mother." 

" But your father, Harry ?" 

" Oh ! father says it don't hurt boys to work at anything 
He gave me the stuff for the apron, and told me to get my 
pretty little Gracey (mind, he called you my Gracey) to 
make it." 

Grace doubted whether she should be able to accomplish 



GRACE LINDEN. 21 

such a feat ; but as Harry declared that kis Gracey must know 
how to do everything, she promised to try. ' Poor Grace ! 
Little did she know what she had promised ; for though she 
was very well versed in over and over seams, and could, upon 
a pinch, hem a pocket handkerchief, cutting out icork was 
quite out of her line. Little girls are mimic women, and 
Grace was a complete little girl, with all the sensibilities, the 
refinements, and pretty little concealments that characterize 
the sex; so instead of going to her sister with the apron, and 
tallving frankly of her new friend, as Harry had done of her, 
she stole away to her chamber and tried to cut one apron by 
the other ; measured and re-measured, made mistakes and 
rectified them ; but never gave up the task till she could pro- 
nounce the garment in some degree shapely. Then Grace 
Ix'gged a tallow candle from her mother, and plied her needle 
all alone till far into the night. The next morning she was 
up with the first grey dawn, singing gaily as she worked ; 
and right prOud was she to fold the apron in her pocket hand- 
kerchief and bound away to the factory at the very moment 
the bell called. Oh, beautiful was the light in the little girl's 
eyes when Harry Russel appeared that morning, though she 
tried to look unusually demure ; and beautiful the dimples 
that would trip it across her pale face in spite of her assumed 
soberness. As for Harry, he ranted in his new dress like a 
stage player, and stalked about in a. manner that Grace thought 
excessively amusing, quite forgetful of his self-imposed duty, 
till he saw the little girl press her hand against her side. 

Day after day passed by, and Harry was still at his post, r.s 
sympathetic, and vigorous, and noisy as ever. Although he 
had somewhat overrated his influence with his father, when 
he promised Grace the wages without the work, his complaints 
of the machine-tender received more attention. Mr. Russel 
investigated the matter with promptitude ; and, as Sliggins 
brought several other charges against him, he was at once 
dismissed, and Francis Linden, as a special favor to himself 
and sister, was allowed to take his place. On the evening of 
tlie day on which Dick Grouse was discharged, as Grace sal 



22 GRACE LINDEN. 

alone in Abby's little room, she was startled by a rustling oi 
the vines at the window. She raised her head and caught 
sight of the face of her tormentor peering at her through the 
opening. Grace screamed and started to her feet, while the 
face kept moving slowly forward until half of the body was 
"^vithin the room. Grace could not scream again, and the boy 
probably thought he had alarmed her sufficiently ; for, shaking 
his c-enched fist, and declaring that he would remember the 
Avork of that day forever and ever, and pay her for it, and 
Harry Russel too, he drew himself back and darted out of 
sight. 

A dear, sweet respite was that vacation for little Grace Lin- 
den, and when it was passed, and Harry had returned to 
school, the fruits of his kindness still remained ; for her brother 
was close beside her, and his cheering voice, rising Avith diffi- 
culty above the noise of the machinery, beguiled many a 
wearisome hour. But a cloud was destined to eclipse even 
this faint glimmer of sunshine. The first autuijinal frost fell 
like a blight upon the frail form of Abby ; and she drooped 
with the flowers that she had loved in summer time. Oh, 
never was there a being more loved, more cherished, more 
idolized than she who was now stricken ! Never were raised 
prayers more fervent, more wildly agonizedthan those which 
broke from the bursting hearts that gathered- around her bed ; 
and yet she died. They buried her before the November days 
came on, deep in the quiet earth, where the bleak winds could 
not reach her, and where she might rest on her cold, damp 
pillow, undisturbed by the busy thoughts that scared away her 
rest while living. Sorrow made the mother sharp-sighted, 
and she now detected the strong resemblance between her liv- 
ing eldest daughter and the dead. The high fair forehead, 
with the blue veins crossing it, the large meek eyes, the thin 
pale cheek, the sharpened chin, all were the same that had 
once been Abby's ; and this same paleness and thinness, and 
sharpness of outline, had been the marks of disease, imme- 
diately preceding the preternatural brightness which had for a 
long time been efiectually deceptive. Grace's ten shillings 



GRACE LINDEN. ' 23 

could be dispensed with now ; the mother did not say it, for it 
seemed sacrilege to accept of a relief which death had 
brought ; but she insisted on removing back to her dear beau- 
tiful Alderbrook, and living as they best could. Behold them, 
then, in the humble cottage which they had left six months 
previous ; the mother and little girls busy with their needles, 
Franlf apprenticed to a country printer, and Mr. Linden deep 
in a job of copying, which he had been lucky erxugh to 
obtain on his arrival. 

CHAPTER II. EIGHTEEN. 

It was a fresh, bright August morning, and a group of 
young girls had collected in the hall and on the portico of a 
fine large building in one of our principal cities. There was 
a ^vreathing of pretty arms, a fluttering of muslins, a waving 
of curls, and a flashing of bright eyes, peculiarly fascinating 
to any one (could such an individual be found) failing to share 
in the popular disgust felt toward "bread-and-butter misses." 
A carriage stood at the door, and a fair girl, graceful as a 
drooping willow, and strangely, spiritually beautiful, equipped 
for travelling, was yet detained by the gay throng about her. 
' Nay, one more kiss, Gracey, dear," said a bright little 
creature, bending her neck, and putting up a pair of fresh, red 
lips, ^vith the daintiness of a bird; " don't forget 7/?e, darling ! " 

' And remember me .' " exclaimed another, balancing on 
her toes to peep over her neighbor's shoulder. 

' Pensez a moi, ma chere amie" responded the tall neigh- 
bor, with an attempt at tune and melody that elicited two or 
three ringing laughs. 

" Good-bye, Gracey, dear ! " 

" Be a good girl, darling ! " 

" Be sure you are back the first of the term I " 

" Take care, Gracey ! don't lose your veil ! " 

" Nor your heart, either ! " 

" Keep a sharp look-out for — you understand, Gracey!" 

" Regardez ! — now behind the pillar ! Look, Grace ! he 
he!" 



24 



GRACE LINDEN. 



These were only a few of the exclamations rising above a 
Babel of sounds', such as only school-girls — and those very 
chatty school-girls — can produce. 

" Good-bye ! au revoir ! " answered Grace ; and, jumping 
into the carriage, she wafted back kisses on her gloved hand, 
answered the waving of handkerchiefs by allowing her own 
to stream out a moment on the air, and then disappeared 
around a corner. 

And this was Grace Linden — the pale, sad little girl, who 
had spliced rolls away in the dismal factory — now a beauti- 
ful creature, in the full pride of maidenhood. She, who had 
been deemed an unfit associate for the son of a manufacturer 
stood on a perfect equality with the refined and highly-bred 
daughters of the proudest families America can boast. Wliat 
change, will be asked, had come over the Lindens? Had 
they become suddenly possessed of an immense fortune ? or had 
some wealthy friend, in compliment to the young girl's evi- 
dent superiority, taken upon himself the pleasant task of edu- 
cating her ? Neither. Mr. Linden made bargains, as usual ; 
and Mrs. Linden plied her needle ; Frank had become a part- 
ner in the printing establishment where he was apprenticed, 
and was flourishing away, v/ith the least of all little caprtals, as 
a country editor ; and Lizzy was teaching a school of young 
misses at Alderbrook. Nothing unusual had occurred, but 
all had been busy — Grace quite as much so as the others. 
The struggle was not now what it had formerly been ; for all 
were able to help themselves. Women often atone for their 
d ificiency of muscular power, by making capital of the brain ; 
and Grace Linden early learned that her hand could be no 
sure dependence. She therefore followed the example of 
Abby, and gathered a little school about herj but she had not 
poor Abby's drawbacks, and all her efforts were prospered. 
Mrs. Linden and Lizzy Avere adepts with the needie, and 
Frank, now and then, threw an extra dollar, which economy 
multiplied to a dozen, into the general fund ; and so the family 
lived respectably and comfortably. But there had been a time 
when Grace had learned to think, and thought once busied 



GRACE LINDEN. 25 

Will never leave the heart till death. Ay, the heart — for 
thence proceed the weightiest thoughts. She was not a 
schemer, but she looked at the present and into the future ; 
she regarded her mother's pale cheek and her father's sad 
countenance, and resolved to leave nothing undone to render 
their age "easj'- and happy. It was for this that she had 
taught, and studied far into the night, and laid by her little 
savings with almost miserly care, until, at eighteen, she had 
raised a sum large enough to place her in a boarding-school 
of the highest character. She entered only for one year, for 
she had already, by her own unassisted eflbrts, laid the foun- 
dation, and almost built up the superstructure of a superior 
education. Half of that year had passed ; and oh ! how hap- 
py was the young student to meet her friends, after that first 
wearisome separation ! It was a very humble home to which 
Grace Linden repaired to spend her vacation, but a very sweet 
and pleasant one, nevertheless. Holy affections consecrated 
it ; and so happy was Grace that she thought not a moment 
of her companions, treading on soft carpets and lounging on 
rich sofas, receiving splendid presents and enjoying costly 
amusements. Her mother's eye beamed lovingly upon her ; 
her sister's arm encircled her waist ; her brother strewed her 
table Avith the books marked by his own pencil, and fresh 
flowers cultivated by his own care ; and her father followed 
her dreamily about, in pride and wonder, and seemed almost 
happy. 

But this was not all. Grace and Lizzy, notwithstanding 
their humble circumstances, had gathered about them a little 
company of friends and- companions, and these, on the return 
of the elder sister, flew to welcome her ; and walks, and 
drives, and picnics became quite the order of the day among 
the young people of Alderbrook. 

" An old friend of yours proposed calling on you this even- 
ing, Gracey," said Frank, one day, " and mind, my lady, to 
have on your very prettiest face, and make yoiir very prettiest 
speeches ; for, to my certain knowledge, you will be tbe first 
feme sole in town to be so highly honored." 
3 



2t) GRACE LKVDEN. 

" ^Vh ! ■' said Grace, stitching away on her wrist-band with 
ihe most unconcerned manner in the world. 

" ' Ah ! ' you would say something more than ' oA,' if you 
knew what an object of emy you "will be to all the misses 
and mammas in the village. Here 's our mother now ; her 
imagination wiU be striding off in seven-league -boots, the 
minute she hears the name." 

" Mother guesses the name," said ^Irs. Linden, glancing 
up from her work archly, " but she will leave the romancing 
to younger heads." 

" A truce to your mysteries ! " exclaimed Grace, " who is 
this wonderfnl personage ? Come, I am prepared for any 
announcement. Is he an Indian nabob ? or a German prince 1 " 

" You recollect the Russels, Grace?" 

" The Russels ! yes ; or one of them at least. Dear, kind, 
generous Harry Russel I I shall recollect him as long as I 
live ! " 

" Ha I ha ! ha ! " laughed Frank, " that is a good one, 
Grace ! Generous and kind enough is this Russel, for aught 
I know; but — ho I ho! the boldness of young ladies, no w-a- 
days, is unparalleled I don't you think so, mother ? Imagine 
Grace, with that demure face, saying ' dear Harry Russel,' of 
a stately sis-footer, so handsome as to turn every girl's head 
in the neighborhood, and so proud as never to give them even 
a smile to make amends ! "V\Tiy, Grace, do you think ever\"- 
body stands still but your own womanly little self? There 's 
no such little boy as Harry Russel, now ; but there 's a ' Hen- 
ry J. Russel, Esq., Att'y. at Law, &c., &c.,' and a fine, noble 
fellow he is, too." 

" I had much rather see the gaUant little Harry of yore, ' 
!?aid Grace, with a decrease of animation. " Does this Rus- 
sel visit here ? " 

" Of course not. He visits nowhere but among his legal 
brethren ; and so you have reason to feel wonderfully flattered, 
you see." 

" But did this proud man, that it seems I shall not like at 
all, call himself an old friend, Frank ? " 



GRACE LINDEN. 27 

•' Oh, no ! he is too much of a gentleman to make an allu- 
sion that he was not quite sure would be pleasant. He is in 
the habit of coming into the office ever}' day, so we are no 
strangers ; and this morning he made verj' particular inqui- 
ries after you, mentioned having met you once at Mrs. Som- 
mers', when he was there, three or four years ago, and 
er|)ressed a desire to renew the acquaintance. Of course. I 
would throw nothing in the way of ^ dear Harry Russd:' 
and '.11 I have to say now, is, look your prettiest ." 

But Frank was obliged to say much more ; for Grace had 
a hundred questions to ask about the Russels, of whom she 
had not heard for the last two years. A year or r\vo after the 
Lindens abandoned their scheme of factory labor, Mr. Russel 
had turned his attention to a different branch of business, and 
consequently removed to the city of New York. The acci- 
dental meeting of Harry and Grace at the house of a mutual 
friend, some time after, had been extremely embarrassing 
for both ; they were just of that awkward age when we poor 
foolish mortals learn to be ashamed of frankness and simplici- 
ty, and are too unpractised to appear at ease under the mask 
we choose to assume. Grace now learned that Mr. and ilrs. 
Russel were both dead; and that the wealth, on which the 
mother had so prided herself, had passed with them. The 
son, thus deprived of the fine fortune that he had been accus- 
tomed to consider his own, had yet his profession left, and he 
bent not for a moment beneath the disappointment. Findin?, 
however, that he must hew out his fortune by his own strong 
will, he resolved to shrink not from severe labor; and he 
knew that i young man, without money or powerful relations, 
may occupy a more respectable position, and advance more 
surely and steadily in a countn,' village than in a large town. 
It was TN-ith this view, and at the urgent solicitations of an 
old friend of his father's, wishing to retire from business, that 
he returned to Alderbrook ; and even in less than six short 
months, by his talent, his legal knowledge, his sterlins: worth, 
and gentlemanly accomplishments, he had won the confidence 



28 GRACE LINDEN. 

of the oldest and most influential inhabitants, not only of the 
village but of the county. 

Grace thought it very strange that such a distinguished 
gentleman, as Mr. Russel vi^as considered, should endeavor to 
seek her out, and she did not believe — not she — but there 
was a little touch of her old friend Harry about him yet. At 
any rate, there was no harm, as Frank had said, in looking 
well ; and so our heroine examined her little wardrobe, and 
spent a half hour in deciding Avhich of her very limited num- 
ber of pretty dresses would set off her figure to the best 
■advantage. Lizzy said a lemon-colored hattiste, but Mrs. 
Linden spoke a word in favor of a plain white muslin, and 
Grace submitted to her mother's judgment, not a little influ- 
enced by the consideration that Lizzy wore white muslin too. 

Very lovely Avas our charming Grace Linden that evening, 
and very much bent on entertaining her visiter,'in whose large 
dark eyes she detected a lingering resemblance to her friend 
Harry. At first, Russel seemed surprised at the beautiful 
vision before him ; perhaps he too had forgotten the flight of 
time, and expected to see his little Grace again. However 
that might be, before the evening Avas far advanced, he was j 
evidently reconciled to the change. As for Grace, she suc- 
ceeded very well in making " pretty speeches," whether she 
studied them for the purpose or not, but. she did not succeed 
so well in feeling entirely at her ease. She Avould have 
been much better satisfied making aprons for the good-natured 
Harry Russel, than playing the agreeable to the courtly gen- 
tleman Avhose call had been pronounced such an honor. She 
did play the agreeable, however, to the admiration of her sis- 
ter Lizzy, particularly, who was quite sure " dear, darling 
Grace " must be the most accomplished lady in the world, and 
watched her Avith proud, loving eyes the Avhole evening. 

In a Avcek from this time, Mr. Russel- Avas quite domesti- 
cated in the family of the Lindens. He came almost every 
evening, but he no longer devoted himself exclusively to 
Grace. Indeed, a kind of reserve seemed to have sprung up 
between them, which curtailed the strides of the booted imag- 



GRACE LINDEN. 29 

ination amazingly. The attention of Grace was nocossarily 
very much devoted to the young; friends with whom she had 
for years been on terms of intimacy. She sang and played 
for them, and chatted, and laughed, and danced ; and, when- 
ever she did, she was sure to receive a full share of flatteries 
and caresses. And then, in the midst of her triumphs, when 
her lip put on its brightest smiles, and her eye flashed with 
pleasurable excitement, Kussel would look upon her, and 
think of the pale, sad little girl, that had so strongly excited 
his boyish sympathy. Could this gay, thoughtless creature 
be the same ? this pretty butterfly, basking in the sunshine of 
admiration, as though it were the life of her spirit ? Could 
this be the Grace Linden that he had longed to look upon 
again, as something consecrated to all that is beautiful, and 
good, and pure, though the impersonation of suffering ? Rus- 
sel might be unreasonable, but he could not bear to see Grace 
Linden so happy. Perhaps he had hoped again to be her 
comforter. Be that as it may, he felt displeased, disappointed, 
almost resentful ; and the more he saw of the lady's singular 
power of fascination, the more closely he devoted himself to 
the unassuming, single-hearted Lizzy, and her no less unas- 
suming and still interesting mother. Russel had yet to learn 
that a settled steadiness of purpose, an earnest spirit, and a 
deep, changeless, watchful, living love, are not incompatible 
with light words and gay smiles. 

" She has rare endowments," he would say to himself, 
and is strangely accomplished for one so young and friend- 
less ; but Lizzy, with her artless ingenuousness, and truthful 
simplicity, is far more lovely." And yet, while dra-\ving these 
sage comparisons, Russel's eyes followed their unconscious 
subject from place to place, as though he deemed that might 
check her mirthfulness, or throw a veil of homeliness over per- 
fections at which he chose to carp. The truth is, Russel was 
reading in a strange book, and he had yet the alphabet to 
learn. With all his lore, the key to woman's nature had not 
been given him. In the effort to please and render happy, he 
saw only a fondness for admiration ; the good nature which 
3* 



30 GRACE LINDEN. 

smiled at a ^oss flattery, rather than wound the flatterer, was 
in his eyes vanity ; and in the sensitiveness which led Grace 
to forbear speaking of a time when she was the object of his 
pity, Avhen she was even more miserable than he could well 
imagine, he read pride and heartlessness. When obliged to 
acknowledge the unquestionable superiority of Grace over 
those around her, he lamented the selfish ambition that he be- 
lieved had led her to labor all her life long for her own ad- 
vancement, rather than sit down at the simple hearth-stone 
consecrated by love alone. Such a picture would Russel 
draw of Grace Linden, meanwhile, shutting his heart against 
her ; but it always faded before one of her gentle, winning 
glances, and then he would sit and converse with her by the 
hour, strenuously resisting every interruption. As for Grace, 
she saw herself, for the first time in her life, the object of 
criticism, Russel was studiously polite to her, but she knew 
that he was not always pleased, and she began to watch her- 
self as she thought he watched her ; until, by natural distrust, 
she was driven to very humiliating conclusions. All this 
could not be without its influence on her manners, and she 
gi-ew capricious. Sometimes she was timid and reserved, 
sometimes startlingly brilliant ; again gay and trifling to an 
excess in ill keeping with her thoughtful face and character 
of pensive sweetness ; but never quite simple and easy, and 
natural ; it was impossible when Eussel was near. She had 
looked up to Harry Russel confidingly, and acknowledged 
his superiority by constant deference, when they were first 
associated ; but now that distance seemed immeasurably in- 
creased, and she had learned to fear him. Russel always 
listened attentively to all she had to say, and seemed pleased 
to hear her converse ; but notwithstanding the promise of his 
boyhood, he was no lady's man. He was unskilled in the use 
of those pretty nothings, which are usually thought to be all 
important ; his words were full of meaning, and Grace, in 
listening to him, forgot to reply. Then she was free and nat- 
ural, and Russel failed not to admire her ; but this often gave 
way to a strange embarrassment that made her almost awk- 



GRACE LINDEN. 3. 

ward. At such times, after he was gone, poor Grace would 
review every foolish sentence she had uttered, and dwell pain- 
fully on some thoughtless act, which she was sure she would 
not have commuted in any other presence. The pleasaui 
vacation that Grace had promised herself grew uncomfortable, 
and she almost wished that Russel would be a less constaiu 
visiter ; but when he did chance to stay away, the eyes of 
Grace were off the door scarcely a moment. Had she offend- 
ed him, she constantly inquired of herself, or could it be 
indifference or disgust ? 

One morning Grace Avas very pleasantly surprised by a 
piece of new music from Russel ; and she practised upon it 
all day that she might play it to him in the evening ; but 
when evening came she was dissatisfied with her execution, 
and refused to play until a long time urged, and then her hand 
was not firm, and she touched the keys falteringly. Russel 
seemed vexed — she had played for others, well and often — 
why would she never do anything that he wished ? Grace 
saw that he was displeased, and her eye moistened ; then she 
recollected that he had no right to be, and, with a very cold, 
quiet excuse, she turned from the piano, and joining a young 
friend on the other side of the room, was soon engaged in a 
very animated conversation. Now and then the sound of 
Russel's deep, manly voice, made her reverse a sentence or 
forget to finish one ; but nearly a half hour passed before she 
ventured to look at him. He was explaining to her brother 
the true bearing of some political question, and seemed deeply 
interested ; but whenever he paused, Grace observed a deep, 
painful seriousness upon his brow that was quite unusual. 
"'He has something to trouble him," thought the fair girl, 
•' and I, foolish child that I am, have added to his annoyance." 
Instantly every thought of his superiority vanished — she did 
not care if he did consider her a simpleton — she was sure 
she could not appear more of one than when she attempted 
that show of dignity so little in accordance with her character. 
He was inquiring for a paper Avhich Frank did not think was 
in the house ; Grace knew where it was, and she glided qui 



2P GRACE LINDEN. 

etly out of the room, and returning, slid it into his hand with 
a pleasing, winsome glance, which seemed to inquire, " Can 
we not still be friends ? " Russel looked up, surprised and 
delighted ; and that bright, earnest, heartfelt expression, which 
Grace so well remembered in the boy, lighted up his coun- 
tenance. And they were friends — such very interested 
friends, that Frank, and Lizzy, and young Edward Sommers, 
and two or three other mischievous persons, amused them- 
?el\es at their expense for the rest of the evening. 

" You must hear me play that exquisite air before you 
icave, Mr. Russel," said Grace ; " the fault was all in my 
band before; I can assure you the will had nothing to do 
with it." 

" And the rare pet you got into afterwards, Gracey ?" in- 
quired Frank. 

'' That was — but I '11 not have you for my confessor, with 
your saucy questions and brusque ways; would you, Mr. 
Russel ? " 

Russel thought he should like to propose a candidate for 
that office himself; and when Grace again crimsoned, and 
made some remark to her mother to hide her embarrassment, 
he Avondered that he could ever have esteemed her cold and 
heartless, ruined by her ambition. She sat down to the 
piano; and now, conscious of his approbation, she played 
with more spirit and animation- than was her wont. Once 
she cast a quick glance at Russel. He stood in breathless at- 
tention. Then her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and 
her beautiful neck arched itself proudly. She finished, and 
rose from the instrument in conscious triumph — her only 
thought that she had redeemed her fault. Russel wished she 
had not played ; and Grace easily detected the want of heart 
in his cold, measured compliments. 

" He is not v/orth the trouble that I have bestowed upon 
him," thought Grace, as, with pouting lip and swelling bosom, 
she curtsied him out of the room. 

" Ruined by her ambition," thought Russel, all the way 
home ; and all night long it was the burden of his dreams. 



GRACE LINDEN. 33 

As Russel walked home that evenhig, a drunken man stag- 
gered up to him, guided by the light from a low-eaved, filthy- 
grocery, and, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder, poured 
forth a profusion of half-profane, half- vulgar slang, of which 
nothing could be well understood. Russel, however, caught 
the name of Grace Linden ; and, swinging the impertinent 
intruder around, he dropped him by the roadside and proceed- 
ed on his way. In the mean time the drunken man crept from 
the gutter ; and, half-sobered by the energetic proceedings of 
Russel, turned slowly down the street and walked on until he 
reached the house of Mr. Linden. Here he paused, and 
gazing up at the lighted windows, seemed revolving a bitter 
subject. " Yes, it is all owing to her," he muttered, " all ; 
and if I should die on a gallows I would say she brought me 
there. She did n't like my face, forsooth, and my voice was 
Inot so smooth and soft as old Russel's son's, and so I was sent 
[out to starve. Now, by all the powers of hell — " the mis- 
[erable man, pausing in his malediction, as though his hatred 
'could not be shaped into words, shook his clenched fist toward 
jthe window, and then, leaning over the fence, seemed engaged 
in eager plotting with his own cunning. Now and then, he 
kvould raise himself, and gaze up at the house with a dark, 
fierce glare ; but, one by one, the lights went out, till every 
window was darkened, and then the drunkard stretched him- 
self upon the sod, and slept more sweetly than many a better 
ran. 
As Grace Linden looked from her Avindow early on the 
'ensuing morning, she observed a miserable wretch, in tattered 
'garb and with a face distorted by evil passion, regarding her 
intently from an opposite corner. A feeling of indefinable 
fear crept over her, for there was something strangely familiar 
in that malicious expression, which led her at once to think 
of the boy who had filled her little head with tales of horror, 
that even now she shuddered to recall. Immediately, the face 
peering at her through the vinifts of Abby's little window, with 
all its dark malignity, was portrayed in living colors ; and 
hastily drawing the little curtain before the window, she sat 



34 



GRACE LINDEN. 



down upon her bed-side, and wept long and bitterly, not over 
the sufferings, but the touching sorrow of the past. That 
Abby's lot had been so dark, so sad ! and now they were all 
so very happy ! Grace, however, soon dried her tears, and 
tying on her bonnet, stole silently down the stairs, through 
the garden, up a well-trodden foot-path, and soon she was 
kneeling on her sister's grave, within the enclosure of the vil- 
lage church-yard. 

" And when six months more have passed, you will take 
up your abode in Alderbrook, I suppose, or, perhaps, favor 
some brighter clime with your presence," said Russel, one 
evening, when Grace had been drawing a mimic picture of 
her return to school ; and as he spoke, he bent his searching 
eyes upon her, as though he expected to read the answer more 
in her face than words. 

" Oh I the brighter clime, of course, has my patronage," 
answered the lady, gail);- ; " my next visit to Alderbrook will 
be a flying one." 

Russel's countenance fell. " Your frien Is," said he, with 
some bitterness, " will doubtless find the parting easier, since 
it is for your happiness." 

" Yes, for my happiness," echoed Grace, with an ill sup- 
pressed sigh. 

" On what quarter of the globe, fair lady, will you deign 
to cast the sunlight of your smiles ? " inquired a slim clerk, 
in the first and worst stages of dandyismp stepping daintily 
towards the seat which Grace occupied. 

" That is beyond my circumscribed prescience, most gal- 
lant subject mine," answered Grace, mischievously ; " will yo\a 
cast my horoscope ? " 

The flowering dandy seemed a little puzzled. It was evi- 
dent that he was no lexicographer, and he retreated without 
attempting any familiarities with the stars 

*' Then you have not decided as to the future, Miss Lin- 
den ? " inquired Russel. 

" Circumstances must decide me, Mr. Russel," and the lips 



GRACE LINDEN. 35 

of Grace remained apart as though she would have added 
more, but was for some reason withheld. 

" We are all very much at the mercy of circumstances," 
remarked Russel ; " but it seems hardly fitting that one like 
you should confide your destiny to such a capricious guide." 

" It may be so," answered Grace, almost gloomily, " but in 
that case the world has but a choice few, well-guided. — I 
must bide my destiny," she added, with more cheerfulness. 

Russel was silent. There was evidently a thought he 
would have spoken, but it was probably something that he had 
no right to speak, and so he bit his lips and crowded do^vn 
the temptation. Meanwhile Grace was not quite sure that she 
had not said too much of herself and her plans ; and, con- 
fused by his silence, she proceeded, like all embarrassed per- 
sons, to say more. 

' Not that I anticipate a severer destiny ; it is much pleas- 
anter to look for sunshine than clouds." 

'And you have no reason to look for clouds," said Russel, 
with a sad smile ; " I predict for you a smooth destiny." 

" Then I shall add the weight of your prediction to my 
owTi hope," answered Grace, cheerfully; " and, looking upon 
the whole past, I will venture to believe that Fortune may not 
so change as to prove herself a severe 'step-dame.' " 

' Heaven grant that she may not ! " answered Russel, " and 
yet, success is not always for our best good ; I have knowni 
its influence on the character to be anything but salutary." 

" I hope my character stands in no need of reverses now ;■'' 
answered Grace, affected beyond control ; " you, Mr. Russel, 
better than any one else, should know how deeply it has been 
tried. The future can have nothing too dark, too bitter for 
me ; for the remembrance of that one gloomy summer, Avith 
the toils and privations that succeeded it, would make all after 
adversity a light thing. Forgive the allusion to those days — 
I had thought never to mention them ; but the remembrance 
is vdth me always ; and I cannot separate the generous boy 
to whom I owe perhaps life — reason, I am almost sure, 
from — " Grace had been too much excited, she had gone too 



36 GRACE LINDEN. 

far. One thought of the proud, stern countenance of Russei, 
abashed her ; and, unable to extricate herself, she found re- 
lief in an ungovernable burst of tears. 

" Do not separate them, dear Grace, do not try ! " The 
words fell upon her ear in low, thrilling tones, that she could 
scarcely recognize ; and Grace dared not raise her eyes, lest 
she should discover that they had been spoken in mockery of 
her emotion. 

" AVhat a stupid couple you are, here in this comer !" ex- 
claimed Frank, coming forward, as is the fortune of some 
people, just when he should not ; " and tears, as I live ! Be- 
tween ourselves, Russel, Gracey is getting to be the veriest 
cry-baby in Christendom. I wish you could convince her that 
it will spoil her eyes to be so mopish." ' 

" Mopish I " repeated Russel, abstractedly. I 

'• Excessively — if you could only have seen her the other 
evening, just when you were not here to see her — " 

" Frank ! " exclaimed the sister, quite thrown off her'guard. 
" Don't believe anything he says, Mr. Russel ; his word is 
not to be depended on for a moment. You know I am always 
happy — it is my nature to be happy. I could not be mopish ' 
if I should try. By the way, Frank, did you bring me the' — J 
the book you promised ? " 1 

" "What book ? " 

" "V\Tiy the nice story-book, that was to- amuse me while 
travelling. Frank has a very treacherous memory," she 
added, turning to Russel. 

The young man started and looked up vacantly. " Were 
you speaking to me, Gra — Miss Russel — Miss — Miss Lin- 
den ?" and poor Russel, confounded by his most awkward of | 
all awkward blunders, reddened and looked more confused 
than ever Grace had done. 

" Ha, ha, ha ! yes; I recollect all about the book, Gracey 
laughed Frank, brimful of merriment, at the sudden light that* 
broke in upon him ; and, with a very laiowing look, and a very 
loAV bow, he turned' as be said. 1o company less pre-occupiod. 



'\ 



GRACE LINDEN. 37 

" Frank is very merry to-night," observ^ed Grace, " he must 
have been visiting the Ashleys." 

There 's nothing like Avoman's tact to disentangle the Gor- 
dian knot of a double and twisted embarrassment, that, origi- 
nating in nothing, tends to nothing. The Ashleys afforded a 
fruitful theme, and they were discussed with a genuine relish 
for gossip, that had never before been developed in either of 
our young friends. It may be that there were mingling some 
home-allusions, and direct personalities ; it is certain that there 
were looks and tones not quite in keeping with the careless 
words ; otherwise, what should place the two young people 
on the very peculiar footing that they evidently occupied at 
parting ? 

The next meeting between Grace and Russel was joyous 
and cordial on one side, timid, pleased, and gracefully shy on 
the other. They met in the magnificent old woods, where 
conventionalism seems a mockery, and heart speaks to heart 
through the medium of invented words, or the more eloquent 
language traced by a divine finger on the countenance, and 
colored from the soul. 

Side by side, they walked beneath the grateful shadows, 
talking in tones low and deep, as if every word had its origin 
in the inner sanctum of the spirit ; and carelessly crushing 
the bright-eyed flowers, and the large, round dew-drops, scat- 
tered in their path-way, as if they had never admired the 
humble beauties of the woodland. And there Grace unfolded 
all her plans for the future — those plans that she had never 
fully confided even to. her darling brother ; and looked up for 
approbation, just as she would have looked to Harry Rus- 
sel ten summers before, only far more confidingly. And yet 
Grace was no longer the child, but the strong-minded, deep- 
judging, all-enduring woman ; beautiful in her simplicity, 
generous in her unmeasured trustfulness, and strong in those 
high resolves, which had been the dreams of her childhood, 
and were now approaching to realities. And now Russel 
learned the object of that ambition which he had so often 
censured. Lizzy must be allowed advantages equal to her 
4 



3S GRACE LINDEN. 

sister's ; and Lizzy's father and mother must be provided with 
a comfortable, pleasant home, and find again the happiness 
they lost in youth. It was a debt she owed, so Grace insist- 
ed, for all the care and wearying anxiety which she had oc- 
casioned them in childhood ; and she would repay it, though 
grey hairs should come long before her mission could be ac- 
complished. And Grace was surprised to see the dignified, 
Manly Russel, with all his coldness and sternness, display an 
almost girlish weakness of feeling, at the unfolding of a plan 
so simple and natural. She wished him to praise her ; — in 
deed, it would have made her sad to think that he did not 
appreciate the self-denial it would require to separate herself 
from all she loved, and spend years of toil among strangers. 
She was no heroine, but a fond, devoted, confiding woman, 
ready for any sacrifice of her own interests, but in the midst 
of all, panting for that breath of life to every true woman — 
sympathy. And yet she saw no cause for the deep emotion 
which almost unmanned her lover. She knew that she was 
doing right ; that she v/as acting as the world would call (if 
the world ever knew it) generously ; but little did she know 
the touching beauty, the deep, tender sacredness., which her 
cnaracter from that moment assumed in the eyes of the hith- 
erto suspicious, though fascinated Russel. It was late before 
they emerged from that now endeared forest ; and then words 
had been spoken which are thtis spoken but once ; and which 
never, never, even through a long eternity, could be recalled. 
The solemn stars had witnessed their betrothal ; and the green 
forest leaves, fluttering their fresh lips together, murmured it 
to each other, and to the wandering breezes ; and the spirit of 
the dead sister, in whose bosom Grace had wept her bitterest 
tears, carried the holy vows to Heaven, and saw thenx en- 
graved on angelic tablets. 

CHAPTER III. EIGHT-AND-TWENTY. 

" And you have never heard from him since, dear Grace ?" 

" Not a word." 

♦* And yet you feel no resentment ? " 



GRACE LINDEN. 39 

*• Not resentment, but something of disappointment, — a 
great deal disappointed, indeed. Few persons in the world 
would stand a ten years' trial, Lizzy ; but I did have full con- 
fidence in Russel. However, it has not made me distrustful 
of my kind ; faith and hope are yet strong within me, and 
even if the past failed, I am quite satisfied with the present. 
Our home here is a perfect little paradise. Your husband is 
tlie most perfect specimen of a man (always excepting one 
that I have no right to remember) in the world ; and ' Gan- 
papa's little pet, Charley,' the dearest and cunningest little 
fellow — a perfect Cupid, Lizzy ! I am 50 glad you persuaded 
Sommers to settle near us ! As for Frank's wife, I shall love 
her dearly. She is so patient, and gentle, and amiable ! I 
see that father and mother are very fond of her." 

" And well they may be. She is entirely devoted to them 
and Frank. At first, mother had some misgivings about liv- 
ing with a daughter-in-law, but Mary is so respectful and 
dutiful, and so companionable withal, that she would not part 
with her now for the world. But do tell me, Grace, what you 
suppose could have actuated Russel to treat you in such a 



manner 



" Nothing, I think, but time and absence. It is perfectly 
natural — or would be in any other man ; but I was foolish 
enough to suppose him exempt from all the frailties of hu- 
manity. Indeed, I now think him exempt from most of them." 

" How strange ! " 

" What, Lizzy ? " 

" Why, your talk. Do you know x Jtiave been watching 
your face this half hour, and at last have come to the conclu- 
sion that you were never in love ? " 

" Ah ! " 

" The truth is, Grace, you are a little too much reconciled 
to suit me." 

" Do you wish me unhappy, then ? " 

" I cannot say that I do, exactly ; but it would be impos- 
sible to pity you with that smiling face, and happy way of 
Baying and doing everything. Own, Gracey, that you only 



40 GRACE LINDEN. 

fancied Mr. Russel — that your heart was touched only on 
the surface." 

" It may be so," said Grace, carelessly. 

" Good ! and now solve a mystery. Why didn't you fall 
in love with that amiable young Frenchman that you wrote 
me about?" 

" Because my fancy (since you call it that) was pre-occu- 
pied." 

" The only reason, Gracey ? " 

" The only reason, I suspect. If I had seen him at eight, 
or even at eighteen, Russel might never have had the oppor 
tunity to exhibit his fickleness." 

" But when you ceased hearing from Eussel ? " 

" It made no difference, Lizzy. My vows to him are as 
binding as though his remained unbroken." 

" Oh, Grace! do not say that! His falsehood must not 
condemn you to a life of loneliness. You would make such 
a dear, loving liitle wife! I would forget him just out of 
spite, if I were in your place." 

" And so spite myself. Ah, Lizzy ! that is too often the 
case with us foolish women ; but we are spirited at a vast 
expense. To show a false lover that we can do without him, 
we sell the remnant of happiness which he has left us, and 
become martyrs to our own vanity." 

" But think of your being an old maid, Grace ! " 

" Ha ! so it comes to that after all ! An honorable sister- 
hood, Lizzy ! " 

" Grace, a strange notion has just possessed me. Let me 
see Russel's last letter." 

Grace walked across the portico very sloAvly, and by the 
time she again stood before her sister, her face wore its usual 
expression of subdued, but heart-felt cheerfulness. 

" Those letters, Lizzy, I have not looked upon in three 
years. It is not well to test our strength of character too far. 
They are so, so like him ! " she murmured, as she again 
turned away and bent her face close to a little rose-bush tliat 
.stood beside her. 



GRACE LINDEN. 41 

At another time, it is probable that Lizzy would have ob- 
served all this ; but the calm, quiet manner of her sister had 
effectually misled her, and she was only intent on looking 
into the mystery. 

" But tell me, Grace, if you discovered any change in his 
letters — any coldness or indifference — " 

" Oh, no ! they were like himself to the last — as he was 
before I left home for New Orleans — so tender, and gener- 
ous, and noble ! No, Lizzy ! his letters never changed." 

" Then, Grace, my word for it, that Frenchman, that young 
l)e Vere, who loved you so much, is at the bottom of the mis- 
chief. I am certain his letters Avere intercepted." 

" Never, Lizzy ! at least by De Vere. He is the soul of 
honor. I would sooner suspect you, or myself, or anybody, 
of such a crime." 

" Then what could it be, Grace ? " 

" Time and constant occupation — nothing else, I feel 
assured." 

" But is n't it strange, then, that he has never married some 
one else ? " 

" Lizzy, dear Lizzy ! let us change this subject. We can- 
not account for all Russel has done ; we only know that he is 
lost to us, and forever. I cannot feel resentment for what I 
know to be very natural. I have schooled my heart into sub- 
mission and cheerfulness, and I intend to be very happy with 
you here — dear loving ones, that you are ! But, Lizzy, 1 
have a woman's heart, and I must own to you that it has not 
yet learned to subdue its many weaknesses. No tears, dar- 
ling, I do not need them — indeed, I do not, and you must 
not pity me. I am no love-lorn damsel, but neither am I a 
stoic. Now for a ride on horseback, and let us forget for a 
while that there is anybody but us two in the wide world." 

Ten years had not passed over the head of Grace Linden 
without leaving an impress. They had matured her beauty, 
added polish and dignity to her manners, ripened her intel- 
lect, but cast a deep, deep shadow on her heart. In pursu- 
ance of an original plan, on leaving school, she had gained a 
4# 



42 GRACE LINDEN. 

Situation as governess in a southern family. The first few 
years of her exile from home had been tedious and weari- 
some ; but then she entered the family of the De Veres, and 
from that time everything was changed. She had spent bu 
a few mouths with them before she became less the governess 
than the friend and companion — the daughter and sister. 
As she intimated to Lizzy, delighted would they have been to 
make her so in reality, to keep her with them forever ; but 
when Grace gently and truthfully gave her great reason for a 
refusal, she suffered no diminution of kindness. Political 
troubles having driven the De Veres from their own country, 
they had brought with them those republican sentiments which 
were the fruit of the times, together with cultivated minds, 
-efined tastes, polished manners, and a high-souled generosity , 
that sometimes led to the most noble and chivalric actions. | 
Such spirits have a mesmeric lore by which they read each • 
other's natures at a glance; and this must have been the 
secret of the strong attachment between Grace Linden and 
those she served. The residence of Grace in this family was 
highly advantageous to her ; for she mingled with them freely 
at home, and accompanied them abroad as the daughters' 
friend ; at the same time receiving a salary which enabled 
her fully to carry out her intentions with regard to her parents. 
For five years, almost every act of her life and wish of hei 
heart were known to Russel ; and he found time, even in the 
midst of his high duties, to return her confidence warmly and 
without measure. Then, as the time for her returning home 
drew near, he became of a sudden strangely silent. Grace 
was all-trusting, and, from day to day, from week to week, 
she busied herself with framing excuses, which, if not satis- 
factory, yet served the purpose of busying the mind. She 
did not cease to wrhe ; and every day, with a kindling eye 
and beathig heart, did she descend to meet the post-boy at the 
hall door, returning as often to weep over her disappointment 
alone. And still did she try to excuse. He was so very 
ousy — it was selfish to ask so much of his precious time — 
then the letters might have miscarried — those southern mails 



GRACE LINDEN. 43 

were so irregular. Yes ! they had certainly miscarried, and 
she would write again. And again she wrote, and again ; 
and her heart grew sick with disappointment. Then came 
the fearful conviction of his illness — illness among strangers, 
looked after only by hirelings ; for poor Grace had not yet a 
doubt of his truth. She could not inquire of her friends, for 
Russel had been for years a popular metropolitan lawyer, and 
they seldom saw or communicated with him. And Grace, 
with her usual unselfish consideration for others, concluded 
that since they were unable to assist her, she would no* 
trouble them. But her fears for his illness were soon dissi- 
pated, for she one day saw, in a northern paper, a notice of a 
fine plea which he had made a few days previous ; and his 
eloquence, his legal learning, and lofty principles were so 
highly extolled, that for a moment Grace forgot her own trou- 
bles in her pride for him. But it was only for a moment. 
Gradually came tlie conviction that his success was no longer 
aught to her; that, however brilliant his career might be, her 
future must be one of darkness and loneliness — she was 
studiously neglected and forgotten. Oh ! that hour of wild, 
withering anguish ! that dark, deadly struggle of every power 
within ! It was fearful, but Grace was alone, and not a hu- 
man heart dreamed of the depth of her wretchedness. Then 
came a sense of utter, utter desolation, when all her treasured 
hopes were crushed within her bosom ; and then a dead, cold 
calm, as if the life-current had been suddenly congealed, set- 
tled upon her heart. Her friends knew that she was unhap- 
py ; and, without seeking for the cause, showered upon her 
the most tender attentions, till Grace was ashamed not to 
reward their unwearied kindness with success. For their 
sakes she tried to be cheerful, and the attempt was not alto- 
gether in vain. The time came Avhen Grace should have re- 
turned to her home in the north, but every motive for return- 
ing had now been taken from her. She could not bear that 
those, whose happiness had been the whole care of her life, 
should see her changed, and know that grief had so changed 
net : that would be blottinsr out the work of her own hands, 



44 GRACE LINDEN. 

extinguishing the light which she had herself created. The 
De Veres were about to make a visit to the old world, and 
were urgent that she should accompany them. And Grace 
consented. Though she had now shut up her inner heart 
against her other self, and resolved not to be the victim of her 
own dead hopes, it yet made but little difference where she 
was, pro-vided the earliest and noblest of her plans failed not 
through her own sorrows. She wrote to announce her inten- 
tion of going abroad; and then, for the first time, she spoke 
of her changed prospects, though, so lightly, as to leave the 
impression with all that the arrangement had been made am- 
icably and very probably for the good of both parties. When 
she returned home, four years after, she was so entirely the 
Grace Linden of other days, that no one would have dreamed 
a single woe had crept into her heart, a single grief shaded 
her clear, open brow, or a tear dimmed the lustre of her deep, 
soulful eye. Months passed before she even made a confi- 
dante of Lizzy, and then she only gave her facts, carefully 
covering up all that might be painful in the history. 

" Take care, cognata mia ! " said Edward Sommers, as 
Grace playfully pointed her little riding whip at him, while 
he stood cautioning for the dozenth time his young wife, 
" take care ! your day will come yet, my gay Beatrice." 

Grace flourished her whip again, the horses arched their 
necks and touched the pavement daintily, as if proud of their 
fair burdens ; and, without waiting the conclusion of another 
caution, which the careful husband was just commencing, the 
sisters bent their heads with a gay laugh, and tightening the 
reins, away they flew like two beautiful birds. A shower of 
rain had fallen an hour before, and whole strings of large 
liquid crystals clung quiveringly to every spear of grass, 
while many a big drop lay snugly nestled in a flower -bell ; 
and every now and then a breath of pure fresh air came 
sweepmg by, and scattered thousands of the bright tremblers 
from the trees that overhung the wayside. The sky was 
beautiful and clear, and the air delightfully refreshing ; and, 
as the two ladies reined in their gay palfreys and paused to 



GRACE LINDEN. 45 

listen to the bursts of music issuing from the woodlands, they 
would catch the gladsome strain, and echo it back with a true 
joyousness diat proclaimed their sisterhood with the spirits of 
the green wood. On they went, now prancing along under 
the laden trees and catching the rain-drops as they fell, now 
entering a green pasture and galloping upon the turf, and 
again emerging into the high-road, and pursuing their way 
at a pace more sedate and dignified. 

" Grace, do you recollect your old tormentor, Dick Grouse ? " 
mquired Lizzy Sommers, as the two sisters slackened the rein, 
and proceeded amblingly over a very rough road. 

" It would be impossible to forget him," answered l/race, 
with a slight involuntary shudder. " I never should have 
dreamed of the existence of such malice if I had not seen it 
displayed." 

' He lives yonder," returned Lizzy, pointing to a low, board 
hovel, set down in the midst of a potato-patch. 

" He ! " and Grace involuntarily turned her horse's head. 

" What a coward, Grace ! " and Lizzy, smiling over her 
slioulder, cantered gaily forward. 

n a moment Grace was beside her. " Now slower, Lizzy, 
but do not look in the direction of the house ; I always have 

horrible feeling connected with my thoughts of that man ; 
and there is not a being on earth I should be so much afraid 
to meet alone. There is something fearfully supernatural in 
all my notions concerning him, for I once actually believed 
him an evil spirit clothed in flesh and blood. But how came 
he here ? and how does he live ? " 

' He haunted the village until grown to manhood, some- 
times spending a year or two away, but always returning, 
until about the time you went south; he then disappeared, 
and nothing was seen of him for a long time. About three 
years ago he came to Alderbrook, bringing with him a coarse 
virago of a woman whom he called his wife, and a child then 
six months old. They lived in the village, and supported 
Jiemselves by any little jobs of work' which they could get, 
until about a year ago, when the wife died. Grouse behaved 



46 GRACE LINDEN. 

like a brute upon the occasion, openly rejoicing at his free* 
dom." 

" Horrible ! " exclaimed Grace, glancing around her in 
alarm, for now the hut was very near. 

" Oh ! it was inhuman ! but then, Gracey, if you could 
have seen the poor motherless baby, clinging around his neck 
— forlorn little thing as it was ! you would have respected! 
him some, (you couldn't have helped it,) for the child's sake. 
He could not have been so loved by such an innocent crea- 
ture, if there were not a little humanity yet within him." 

Grace mused a few moments. " Lizzy, I cannot altogether 
divest myself of the idea that I have injured that man. I! 
was a silly child, scared at my own shadow, and it may be 
that I deprived him of his only honorable means of subsist- 
ence. I believe people are as often driven into crime as re- 
formed by injudicious punishment." 

" It may be, Grace, but what better could have been done ? 
He was thoroughly bad, even then, and I have never heard 
of his performing a good action in his life. The only 
redeeming trait in his character is an all-absorbing love for 
his child." 

" What has become of the child ? " 

" Several of the neighbors offered to talce it and bring it up 
respectably ; but he ridiculed the idea of not being able to 
care for his own, and removed at once to this hut. But look, 
there is some one with him ! " 

Grace had no need to look, to know that Dick Grouse was 
near, for she heard a volley of oaths that she firmly believed! 
could issue from no other lips. Before the door of the hut 
stood a horse, and beside it. Grouse, holding the half-mountedJ 
OAvner of it by the collar. 

" Let go ! " said the stranger, soothingly, " let go ! there 
would be no use in my staying any longer, and there are a i 
dozen other patients waiting for me." 

The tAVo ladies shuddered at the answer, so full of blas- 
phemy, so replete with agony — and hurried on a few steps, 
then paused and looked back. The physician, for such he 



GRACE LINDEN. 47 

evidently was, had shaken the hand of the desperate man 
from his collar, and was now trying to free the reins from his 
maniacal grasp. 

" I tell you, Grouse, I cannot help her ! You should have 
called me earlier." 

Again the wretched Grouse renewed his oaths and threats, 
and the physician, evidently o'Ut of all patience, was raising 
the butt of his whip over his knuckles, when a sharp, shrill 
cry, as of intense suffering, issued from the interior of the 
hut. 

" Gome, in God's same, come ! " exclaimed Grouse, " she 
shaU TWt die ! " And dropping the reins he hurried into the 
hut, while the physician, relieved, turned hastily homeward. 
The two sisters, pale with fear, looked into each other's faces, 
as though each expected the other to speak first. 

" Let us go in," said Grace, in a low hoarse voice ; " we 
ought to go ; the child is sick, and Doctor Glay said he could 
do nothing to help her." 

•' But he is such a horrible man, Grace." 

" He wouldn't hurt us, if he knew we came in kindness." 

" How dreadfully he talked ! " 

" Dreadfully, but the poor child — " 

Another piercing shriek interrupted her, and Grace sprang 
from her horse. Instantly Lizzy followed ; and, leaving the 
two animals to nibble the fresh grass, they turned to the hut. 

The first object that met their view on entering the door, 
was a little child three or four years old, tossing upon a mis- 
erable substitute for a bed, in a burning, raging fever ; it was 
flinging its little arms about its head, and rolling from side to 
side in agony. A few feet from the bed, stood Grouse, with 
glaring eyes, set teeth, and folded arms, the clenched fingers 
almost buried in the flesh, and his features distorted to a dread- 
ful expression ; nor did he turn his head, nor move an eye- 
lash, until Grace had laid her cool hand upon the forehead of 
the child. Then he bounded forward like a tiger. 

" Away ! away ! would you kill my child ? " 

" No ! I am come to help her, if I can," said Grace, softly. 



48 GRACE LINDEN. 

" Help her ! no ! no ! I know that smooth voice. I have 
seen Grace Linden before. Help ! ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

Grace shuddered, and every nerve quivered with irresisti- 
ble fear; but she passed the hand soothingly over the child's 
limbs, and made no answer. 

" You would help her, as you helped her father. Oh I you 
do good gloriously ! " 

" Mr. Grouse," exclaimed Lizzy, stepping firmly forward, 
" if you have any love for your child, you will cease this. 
We came to do her good, but if we meet with hard words or 
ill-treatment from you, we leave her to her fate." 

Grouse was bending over the bed, as she spoke, and the \ 
child put up her little arms as though she recognized him. 1 
He was instantly subdued. 

" Leave her I Don't, don't leave her ! My poor little Nan- 
nie ! Oh ! help her if you can." J 

"We will!" exclaimed Grace, tears rushing to her eyes, s 
at the sound of his altered voice, " we will do all we can for ! 
her." i 

Lizzy had employed the few moments that had elapsed I 
since her entrance, in taking a survey of the little hut. She j 
found it as she expected, destitute of everything most needed. 

" There is no use in staying," she began ; but suddenly she , 
paused in fright, for the manner of Grouse became furious ; 
" but we will come back and bring Avhat is necessary." 

" No, no, no ! You think her grave-clothes are necessary ! 
But she shall not have them yet. A shroud for her! Her ,, 
so young ? Oh ! I meant no suffering, no harm, no wrong 
should ever come to her ! My poor, poor Nannie ! ' j 

The wretched man crouched upon the floor, like a wounded 
dog, and groaned aloud. 

"J will stay!" said Grace, in a low, half-hesitating tone. 
Then she added, more cheerfully, 

" Hurry home, Lizzy, and send Frank with fresh linen, | 
and — everj thing that is needed — you will know what. ' 
And, Lizzy, ask Franlc to bring Doctor Furman ; he will help 
her if anybody can." 



GKACE LINDEN. 49 

' Now, God bless you, Grace Linden ! " exclaimed Grouse, 
in a subdued tone, " if you had made me ten times the villain 
that I am, God bless you for this ! " 

" Will you help my sister to her horse ? " asked Grace 
quietly. 

Grouse hurried to the door, but Lizzy recoiled from his 
touch, and mounted without assistance. 

" Kide for life, dear Lizzy ! " said Grace from the doorway. 

The child screamed, and the answer was lost ; for Grace 
was alarmed at the rough handling of the frightened father. 

" I shall need some warm water, Mr. Grouse," said Grace, 
as soon as the paroxysm ceased, " and then will you please to 
bring me a tub, and soap, and towels ? We must try to cool 
this terrible fever ; poor child ! her flesh seems on fire. In 
the mean time, I will bathe her temples in cold water if you 
will bring me a basin." 

Grace spoke in those calm, quiet tones, which are so puis- 
sant in subduing madness, and poor Grouse performed her 
bidding with the submissive simplicity of a little child. He 
listened to every word, watched every look, and obeyed the 
slightest direction to the letter ; starting at the child's screams 
as though every pang had been his own, but only bending his 
eager eye on her for a moment, and then turning away, as 
though satisfied that she was in better hands than his. Wlien 
Grace had bathed poor little Nannie's aching limbs, and 
smoothed her hair, and beaten up and spread anew her little 
cot, cooling the linen in the doorway, she laid her dowm 
gently ; and, fanning her with a fresh green bough W'hich 
Grouse had brought her, the little sufferer was soon in a 
troubled slumber. When the miserable father perceived the 
effect of Grace's care, he crept cautiously to the bedside, and 
crouching upon the floor, with his elbows resting on his knees, 
and his chin on both hands, he gazed long and fixedly upon 
the sleeper. At last he turned to Grace. 

' You have wronged me, Grace Linden, and I you ; but if 
you knew all, you would never — " and he pointed to the bed- 

' If I have ever had the misfortune to do you a wrong," 
5 



50 GRACE LINDEN. 

answered Grace, feelingly, " it was unintentional, and I anu 
sorry for it. If it is not too late now to remedy it — " J 

" It is too late ! " growled Grouse, sternly. * 

" Perhaps it may be done in the person of your child," 
faltered Grace, timidly ; for there is nothing that makes us 
such cowards as the slightest consciousness of having per- 
formed a reprehensible act. 

" Ay I save my child, my poor little Nannie, and I will be 
your slave — your dog, to do your bidding while I live. 
There is nothing, Grace Linden, nothing, that I will not do > 
for you, if you make Nannie live." 

He paused a few moments, and then began brokenly — 

" You were a child, only a child, and could not know what t 
you did. It was the fault of others — they should have seen i 

that the poor were not trampled on, and driven to theft, and 

and every crime. No, Grace, you were not so bad, you did n't : 
mean to ruin poor Nannie, and I have wronged you." 

Grace thought the man was going mad, and she fixed her 
eyes on him apprehensively, repeating after him, " To ruin 
Nannie ? " 

" Yes ! to ruin her — to make us glad to put her in the 
grave. Oh ! I did not hate you \vithout a reason, Grace Lin- ■ 
den — but that is passed, all passed, and you will save my 
own poor little Nannie ; you will save her, won't you ? " 

" If I can ; but of what other Nannie have you been 
talking?" 

Grouse looked at her suspiciously. " What other Nannie ? 
"What one but her that they drove into the street to make 
room for you — her that — " ' 

" I never heard of it, Mr. Grouse." 

The face of Grace vouched for the truth of her words ; and 
Grouse, after being a little urged, proceeded to explain to her 
the cause of his original hatred. Ho was not very explicit ; 
but Grace gathered enough to account for the infinite pleasure 
Dick Grouse had seemed to take in tormenting her, and to 
free him, partially, at least, from the charge of unprovoked 
mdlice. The boy's parents, being both drunkards, the children 



GRACE LINDEN. 51 

often sufTered for ihc necessaries of life, and Dick and his 

elder sister Nannie, were at last glad to gain situations in the 

factory of Mr. Russel. It is easy to be believed, however, 

that they were no favorites, and when Mrs. Linden wished 

employment for two of her children, it is not strange that Mr. 

Russel made a vacancy in favor of Grace and at the expense 

of Nannie. The sister of Dick Grouse Avas then nearly 

fifteen, indolent, careless, and vicious ; and, as she could not 

obtain a situation in a respectable family, her course was from 

that time downward. This tale was told brokenly, sometimes 

in piteous tones, sometimes with harsh words and a wolfish 

expression of countenance ; but Grace discovered the iron 

!• that had been cankering^ in the man's soul his life long, the 

': ban of society brought by a parent's crimes I Oh ! that she 

u had sooner known all this ! Even as a child she might have 

; saved a world of wrong. Her heart grew sad as she sat in 

i that gloomy hovel, by the bedside of the dying, perhaps, and 

I in the company of one, not only sinning but sinned against, 

I and, as she now believed, by her own self. 

Oh ! glad was Grace Linden when her brother arrived with 
all the little sick-room comforts, prepared by her mother and 
Lizzy. And glad, too, was she to see the wrist of the suf- 
■ ferer spanned by the fingers of good Doctor Furman ; for she 
knew that if man's skill could avail anything, little Nannie 
Grouse would yet be saved. The kind physician advised 
Grace to return home, and leave the patient to his care ; but 
the proposal seemed such a startling one to Grouse, that she 
concluded to remain and keep watch with her brother during 
the night. In the morning the fever was somewhat abated, 
and little Nannie seemed quite rational ; for she put up her 
parched Tips for her father's kiss, and passed her hot hand 
over his face, winding the fingers in the shaggy beard, and 
trying to win a smile even in the midst of her suffering, till 
the boldly vicious man was fain to turn away his face, ashamed 
of his softness. On his return to the village. Doctor Furman 
engaged a careful nurse to attend upon his patient ; and every 
day Grace and Lizzy showed their kind, cheerful faces at the 



52 GRACE LINDEN. 

hut, until the child was pronounced out of danger. Long 
before this, it would have been difficult for Grace Linden to 
recognize her old enemy, Dick Grouse, in the timid, gentle, 
grateful being, who, she doubted not, would go the world over 
to save her ; and yet, at times, a strange expression flitted 
across his face, an expression so full of meaning, and such 
mysterious meaning, too, that Lizzy, and sometimes Frank, 
thought it boded no good. But Grace was sure the wolf Avas 
tamed ; and when she spoke of it at home, Sommers laughed, 
and professed his implicit belief in the veritable history of 
" Beauty and the Beast." For more than a week before little 
Nannie's nurse was dismissed, Grouse went out in search of 
employment, and when he obtained it, set himself to work 
industriously, saying to all who rallied him on his improved 
habits, that he had need of money. As soon as the child had 
recovered, he brought her in his arms one day to Mr. Linden's 
door, and very humbly begged of Grace to afford her protec- 
tion and shelter during a short absence. " And," he added, 
struggling with some almost overpowering emotion, " and if I 
never return, whatever may chance, Grace Linden, oh, do not 
let her starve ! My poor little Nannie never wronged you." 

Grace accepted the charge, and gave her word that the 
child should be cared for Avhile she lived ; and the strange 
man went away grateful and satisfied. 

" Be sure that you do not fail us," said Grace Linden to 
Mr. Sommers, as she parted from him at the hall door ; " and 
bring Charley. His little eyes will lose none of their sparkle 
by being kept open one evening." 

" You must convince mamma of that," said Sommers. 
" We careless fathers will believe anything you tell us." 

" Well, I shall expect you and Lizzy, if 'leetle pet' is con- 
fined to his crib ;" and Grace tripped lightly up-stairs to her 
own room, and, tired with her long ramble, flung herself upon 
a couch beneath the window. Grace was in no particularly 
musing mood, but the tide of thought is never still ; and 
numerous and hope-fraught visions came clustering thick 
around her, though in none of them was there room for self. 



GRACE LINDEN. 53 

Her parents were happy — so happy that their hearts were 
constantly gusliing forth with thankfulness, and their joy was 
told in words that meant not to tell it — words of the most 
eloquent simplicity. Then Lizzy, the proud young wife, and 
prouder mother, could not have admitted another drop into 
her cup, for it was already brimming over ; and Frank, though 
performing the innumerable duties of a country editor, and 
swelling his tiny capital by immeasurably small particles, yet 
found time to be the most heartily gladsome of the whole 
family. Then Grace thought of Mary, her quiet, gentle, 
affectionate sister-in-law ; and she sprang lightly from her 
couch, and, opening a drawer, began hastily, turning over a 
bundle of laces. 

" Yes ! she ought to wear caps," thought Grace, " pretty 
little dress caps ; they are so becoming to her sweet face. I 
will make one this very evening." 

The door-bell rang just as Grace was deciding whether the 
cap should have a little crown to cover the braid, or pass over 
the top of the head and fall on the neck at the sides, leaving 
the hair more uncovered. 

" Too early for Sommers and Lizzy," she thought, pulling 
out her watch. 

Old Janet tapped at her door, and put in her head. " Mr. 
Russel, Miss;" and little Nannie Grouse squeezed in beside 
her, repeating " Mittah Ushil ! " 

Grace started, and the whole box of laces fell from her hand. 

" Who is it, Janet ? You have made a mistake ! he did 
not call himself — that?-" 

Janet began to protest that he did call himself that; and 
that she heard just as plain as day ; and that (this was said 
in a lower key, however) some folks could hear a great deal 
better than some other folks ; but the appearance of Frank 
cut her short. 

" Your old flame, Russel, Grace — in the greatest tease to 
see you — could scarcely say how d'ye do to me. But, bless 
me ! how pale you are ! Water, Janet ! Bring some water ! 
quick ! " 

5* 



54 



GRACE LINDEN. 



Grace put away the proffered cup, and, bending her head 
upon her cold, white hands, only murmured, 

" To come noio, when I was so, so happy ! it is too much ! " 

" Don't go down, Gracey, dear ! Don't try ! " whispered 
Frank, drawing near. " There is something here that I do 
not understand, but you must tell me at another time. Now 
I will make an excuse for you. I will say you are ill — en- 
gaged — anything you like ; and tell him to come again, or 
intimate that you will be always invisible. Don't try to go 
down, Gracey ! " 

And Grace thought at first that she would not. Then 
came all her womanly pride to aid her ; and she would not, 
for the world, that Russel should suspect her of being less 
indifferent than himself. She immediately arose, and wreath- 
ing the long masses of hair that she had allowed to fall over 
her shoulders, into a knot, attempted to confine it ; but the 
bodkin slipped from her trembling fingers, and Frank was 
obliged, though somewhat awkwardly, to act the part of tire- 
woman. 

" Now, can you assist me farther, Frank ? Put a pin in 
that lace, close to the top of the dress — how rumpled ! " 

And Grace passed her clammy hands ove^ the folds of her 
flowing skirt, to see that each one was in place. 

" Never mind, Gracey, it is well enough ; and if there was 
but a little more color in your cheek, I have never seen you 
so pretty. Now look in the glass." 

" I don't care to be pretty, just now, Frank ; that makes no 
difference. But if Russel should see me carelessly dressed, 
or less cheerful than I used to be, he would suspect what, my 
dear brother, I do not like to have him know — that he has 
caused me sorrow." 

" But he has, Grace I has he not ? Oh ! why have you 
not told us this before ?" 

" It was nothing — was not worth telling. Come now with 
me, Frank, and leave me at the door." 

The young man took his sister's arm in his, but as he per- 
ceived she walked totteringly, he clasped her cold hand 



GRACE LINDEN. 



closely, and wound his arm around her waist. " Grace, my 
poor sister, this will be too much for you ! " 

Grace pressed forward. Slowly, step after step, as though 
joining in a funeral march, they descended the stairs ; the 
strorxg arm of the brother alone preventing her from falling. 
Poor Grace ! Her heart was the grave of its o\vn crushed, 
withered, but now intensely alive feelings. They drew near 
the door, and Frank paused, with his hand upon the latch. 
* Grace, let me see this man ! If his perfidy has occasioned 
all this, it is fiendish in him to come to you now. As your 
brother, your best friend and protector, I should and mus;t 
shield you. Indeed, Grace, you are not equal to" this severe 
task. Let me seek an explanation." 

" Never ! no ! no ! " 

" "Well then, I will not ; but don't see him tO'^night — don't, 
darling ! You are so pale and miserable ! " 

Grace pressed both hands upon her temples, as if their 
throbbing would madden her ; and then leaned her head 
against her brother's shoulder and sobbed without restraint. 
Frank bore her from the door, and, without opposition, guided 
her back to her room. 

" It is so long since I have thought of these things, and 
now they come upon me so suddenly ! " she whispered, as he 
imprinted a kiss upon her dewy forehead. Bitter Avere the 
thoughts of Frank Linden, as he turned from his suffering 
sister to encounter the expected cold eye, and civil speeches 
of the accomplished man of the world. 

Russel was examining a port-folio of pencil sketches as he 
entered, and the centred light of his fine eye, and the qviet 
smile lurking at the corners of his exquisitely moulded mouth 
bespoke a complacent happiness, strikingly contrasted with 
the wretchedness he had occasioned. A joyous smile broke 
from his parted lips and flashed over his whole face like a 
sunbeam, when the door opened ; and then a look of disap- 
pointment followed, so deep and heartfelt that Frank was 
sorely puzzled. He had heard neither side of the story yet. 
and could pnly read faces. , 



«56 GEACE LINDEN. 

" My sister has taken a long walk and is very much 
fatigued to-night. She wishes me to make her excuses." 

Russel looked still more disappointed — somewhat dis- 
tressed even. 

" If she could afTord me a few moments — my business is 
important." 

" Another time perhaps : now she is resting and I would 
not, on any account, have her disturbed." 

" She is not ill, I trust?" and Kussel looked so anxious, so 
troubled, so unlike his usually proud self, that Frank's resent- 
ment began to give way, and he assured him that she was 
quite well — stronger and healthier even than when he last 
saw her. Russel said no more, but drew a small parcel from 
liis pocket, and ^\^:iting a few lines on the cover delivered it 
to young Linden, with the expressed hope that it might soon 
find its way to his sister's hand. When Frank entered her 
apartment, Grace was seated by the window, leaning her fore- 
head against the raised sash, and gazing upon a retreating 
figure, now almost invisible in the grey twilight. 

" And he will never come again ? " she asked, turning 
suddenly. 

" I do not know ; here is something he left you;" and Frank 
placed the package in her hands. 

Grace clutched at it convulsively and drew it close to her 
bosom ; and then she gasped for breath, and attempted to tear 
away the slight fold of lace that shaded her neck, as though 
it had been that which so oppressed her. Frank was alarmed 
and was about to call for assistance, but she arrested his de- 
sign. 

"No — no ! I am better now. It was only a momentary 
struggle and will be the last. I shall be your own Grace 
again m a few days — as happy as I was before this terrible 
mterruption. He did right to return my letters, and I ought 
to thank him for it. I suppose there is no danger of his 
coming again." 

Frank thought not, and with a few soothing words — words 



GKACE LINDEN. 57 

SO beautiful falling from a brother's lips — he left her to 
herself. 

" It is all over," murmured Grace, " and we are parted 
forever and ever. Oh, why did he come to disturb my hap- 
piness ? " 

Hour after hour passed by, and still Grace Linden sat in 
that same position ; her white hands buried in her loosened 
hair, and her cheek pressed closely upon the table before hei 
Frank came in, and, folding her in his arms, gave her the good 
night kiss, and Mary pressed her soft, loving lips upon the 
aching forehead; but she scarce knew it. Midnight drew 
near , the candle flickered and yielded up its light ; and the 
moon went down behind the trees, leaving the chamber in 
utter darkness. Siill Grace moved not : it was her hour of 
utter abandonment. Morning came, and Grace slept — her 
head resting on her crossed arms, and her face buried in the 
sleeves of her robe. Again and again there came a light lap 
at the door, and a pitying face would look in for a moment ; 
but despair has a deep sleep, and this was not easily broken. 
At last Grace moved, and murmuring- her brother's name, 
'awoke. She looked around her with a wild, troubled expres- 
sion, as of one haunted by the memory of a fearful dream. 

" Oh, that it could be a dream ! " she murmured, but her 
hand fell upon a little parcel in her lap, and she remembered 
all — all her agony -and all her hopelessness. Slowly she 
jraised the package and unwound the string, and as a number 
!of letters fell from the envelope, she pushed them from her 
to the other side of the table, and shaded her eyes froni them 
las though the sight was painful to her. Then she mechaiii- 
jcally smoothed the wrapper that she had at first crumpled ia 
iher hand ; examined the seal, bearing simply the letters " H. 
|R.," and the superscription, his own hand-writing, until finally 
Iher eye fell upon some pencilings, and wandered over them 
jat first quite vacantly. In a moment she raised her hand as 
Ithough she would brush away the haze that obscured her 
ivision, and read, although the strange words half bewildered 
iher: 



68 GRACE LINDEN. 

" I would give the world, dear Grace, to see you to-night, i 
for I have everything to say. But this package will explain j 
all — it contains our intercepted letters. A miserable wretch, i 
touched by your kindness, has confessed the fraud and deliv- I 
ered them up. Forgive, dear Grace, my credulity, though j 
even then I shall not forgive myself. H. R." 

The sun had been up nearly two hours, when Lizzy Som- 
mers found her sister extended upon the floor senseless, with 
the paper crushed in her two hands, and her white lips parted n 
with the first involuntary expression of surprise. She had!| 
borne her sorrows well, and but few had even suspected their ■, 
existence ; but the transition was too sudden, too unexpected, j 
and her power of endurance was spent. In a few moments ■ 
her heart palpitated wildly ; a crimson flushed her cheeks ; a i, 
light broke from her eye, and throwing herself on the friendly ■ 
bosom of her sister, Lizzy was for the first time made ac-- 
quainted with all her weakness and all her strength. 

Russel found no difficulty in obtaining pardon, for if his 
rich, manly voice, had pleaded in tones less winning, and! 
spoken words less delicately tender, and if those deep, soulful 
eyes, had looked into hers with but a tithe of their thrilling 
earnestness, there was that in the heart of Grace that would 
have forgiven a greater offence than being convinced of hen 
untruth when there remained no longer a foothold for faith. 
Grace had not loved Russel for the power which she had ! 
gained over him ; she had never even dreamed how great that : 
power was, and testing it, by way of learning, she would have ■ 
deemed degrading to them both. It was his rare intellectual 1 
endowments, his high-toned character, his conscious manli-- 
ness, that had at first won her; and although other and! 
tenderer qualities had conspired to make him dearer than she 
could have known, had not sorrow unveiled to her her owni 
secrets, she could never have rested so securely in his heart, , 
had that manliness ever bent too low beneath the weight of' 
passion. He had poured out the priceless wealth of a noble '. 
heart at her feet — it was a fit offering, and it could not be' 
made richer. His reason, his independence were his own : : 



GRACE LINDEN. 0\f 

hers, as far as their guidance and support were needed, but 
tliey Avere no part of the sacrifice. Perhaps it might have 
been otherwise had Grace loved less ; men have often yielded 
up their noblest traits of character to womanly caprice, but 
never to womanly love. 

Russel and Grace had so much to talk of, so many little 
plans to frame and re frame, and so many more interesting 
revelations to make, that it was several days before she was 
in possession of the facts concerning the letters. She had, 
however, found time to read all his, and had been duly 
remorseful on finding that his package numbered more than 
hers, and that several of them bore a later date. 

Soon after Russel's departure from Alderbrook he had found 
Grouse in abject circumstances, and, thoroughly conscious of 
his unworthiness, he had been generous enough to employ 
him in several petty services out of mere charity. Grouse 
had nursed the hatred, imbibed in boyhood, for all those who 
he believed had influenced for ill his fortunes ; and he had 
brooded over his wrongs in solitude and wretchedness, until 
they had assumed a most portentous form, and swallowed up 
every other consideration. The very name of Russel roused 
the demon within him ; and, but for the bread which he must 
have to keep him from starving, he would have poured forth 
his pent-up venom -without measure. As it Avas, he contented 
himself with petty annoyances, which at first were not noticed. 
One day, however, Russel found occasion to reprimand him 
severely, and Grouse went away angry ; but driven by neces- 
sity, he soon returned, and pleaded his cause so effectually 
that the young attorney took him into his service again. It 
was nearly six months -after this, that Miss Linden's letters 
suddenly ceased, and although Grouse was employed as post- 
boy to and from the office, he had been so faithful in other 
respects, that he was not even for a moment suspected. His 
position, too, shielded him ; if Russel had looked for villany, 
it would have been to a quarter less ignorant and degraded. 
As for Grouse, he had evidently laid no plan for injuring his 
victims ; but discovering one day, accidentally, to whom the 



60 GRACE LINDEN. 

letters were addressed, he \vithheld them merely for the pur- 
pose of carrying out his system of annoyance. One letter of 
inquiry addressed to Mr. De Vere, and another to Francis 
Linden, shared the same fate ; for Grouse had been too long 
accustomed to read upon Grace's letters, " Gare of Monsieur 
De Vere," not to understand the object of the first, and the 
other bore the name of Linden. Russel, however, had per- 
severed in his attempts to discover the cause of Miss Linden's 
unaccountable silence, until she set sail for France. Then he 
repeated, but in a tone more sad than bitter, (men learn toler- 
ance by living long with mankind,) " ruined by her ambition." 
He caught one glimpse of her from a position whence he 
could not be recognized, when she landed in New York ; but 
notwithstanding the truthful expression that seemed deepened 
even on her still beautiful face, her easy cheerfulness only 
confirmed his belief. He thought a noble spirit had been 
sacrificed ; and he lost all confidence in the truth of human 
nature, even while he learned more sincerely to pity and for- 
give its follies. 

Grouse threw the letters into an old trunk that had been his 
sister's, and therefore was preserved with a strangely tender 
carefulness. He had never thought of them since, except to 
chuckle in private over his successful villany, until he saw 
Grace Linden v/atching by the side of his sleeping child. 
Gratitude broke up the dark, bitter fountains of hate, and 
threw a smile upon his heart which had never visited it be- 
fore. Then he resolved to make all the restitution in his 
power, though he little knew the injury he had done. And 
often, when he looked upon Grace Linden afterwards, he 
exulted in the thought of being able to show, in some degree, 
his appreciation of the kindness which almost bewildered him. 
As soon as he was able to earn a little sum to defray travel- 
ling expenses, notwithstanding his fear of deserved punish- 
ment, he started in search of his wronged master; and 
Russel, more inclined to reward him for the present, than to 
punish him for the past, lost no time in repairing to Alder- 
brook 



GKACE LINDEN. 61 

Before the autumn leaves had all fallen, there were rejoic- 
ings and weepiiig in the fomily of the Lindens ; for the bridal 
festivities were only the precursor of a sorrowful separation. 

" Why not build a little villa, and have one hone for us 
all," said Sommers, shaking heartily the hand of his brother- 
in-law. " The world you are bustling in will never reward 
you for half your labors." 

" Suppose my labors Avere of a nature to reward them- 
selves?" answered Russol, smiling. 

" Pursue them then, but be sure never to look beyond your 
own bosom for it. I have but little faith in gratitude en masse; 
I would deal with the individual." 

" Ay," said Frank, unconsciously moving his fingers after 
the fashion of a compositor, "kind deeds do sometimes meet 
with gratitude vv^hen they assume the form of personal favors ; 
but who ever heard of a whole state, or county, or village 
even, being grateful for the most disinterested services ? " 

" How now, Frank ! " exclaimed Russel, laughing. " What 
brother editor has been giving you a specimen of his talent 
at blackguardism this morning ? " 

" Frank is right, however," answered Lizzy. " Only think' 
of Dick Crouse. By a little kindness, without positive incon- 
venience to herself, Grace has secured his everlasting grati- 
tude. She might have built a hospital for sick children, (a 
dozen of them for that matter !) and good, generous-hearted 
people might have enjoyed its benefits without feeling the 
least touch of an emotion so pure and unselfish as animated 
Dick Crouse in spite of his degradation. So much for labor- 
ing for the public ! " 

" True, Lizzy," began Grace, " but — " 

" But ! No — no, Grace ! None of your huts now ; we 
all know what is coming. These young brides always take 
their cue from their husbands ; but wait, Mr. Russel, till she 
has been matronized a few years — only wait I She will be 
as positive and opinionated as any of us." 

Well, of one thing I am certain," said Grace, gaily, " as 
6 



62 GRACE LINDEN. 

long as ]\Ir. Russel looks well to one individual, I shall not 
interfere with his public services, I can assure you." 

" Recollect that the individual has a fee to pay, however," 
answered Russel, "since the public is so ungrateful." 

Our nowly-wcdded friends took their departure at an early 
day, and proceeded to the city of Washington. Russel was 
now deeply engaged with public afTairs ; and Grace entered 
with a greater zest into his plans, and encouraged his designs, 
because she found him actuated by true patriotism, and knew 
tliat his honorable spirit would never stoop to the petty arti- 
fices of manceuvrmg politicians. 



CHAPTER IV. EIGHT-AND-THIRTY. 

It was a scene of rare brilliancy. Large mirrors flashed 
back the blaze of the glittering chandeliers, and mimicked on 
their surface the varying features of the crowd traversing the 
magnificent saloon. There were noble dames in jewelled 
tiaras and robes of every description, from the royal ermine 
and glossy velvet, with its rich, heavy folds, to the silver gos- 
samer floating like a misty veil around some figure of rare 
etherialness. Beauty cast its spell around, and wit and senti- 
ment sped like light-winged, pearl-tipped arrows, flashing 
from lips all familiar with the elegant artillery. Brave, high- 
botn men, bearing honored titles, (men, who from infancy had 
looked on scenes of regal grandeur, and become so familiar- 
ized with the gay, trifling pageantry, as to act their parts 
perfectly with absent thoughts,) passed up and down the 
tlironged apartment, and bent their heads, and smiled, and 
dropped dull words that passed for wisdoni, or wise ones that 
no one appreciated, with a courtly air that disclaimed kindred 
with all associations below the level of the palace. 

" A rare masquerade ! every face is as completely en masque 
as though the famous iron one had been put in requisition for 
all." 

So spake an elegant woman, standing in the recess of a: 
window, and half shaded by the folds of crimson drapery;! 



GRACE LINDKN. 



63 



from the gay scene on which she commented. She seemed 
quite at home amid all that glitter, and yet not like one whose 
heart was in it very deeply, though in the meridian of her 
days, and passing lovely. She wore a robe of black velvet, 
fitting closely so as to display the beautiful contour of he. 
form ; and her head-dress was of fleecy whiteness, looped by 
a single diamond set with rubies, and surmounted by a mag- 
nificent plume bending beneath its own rich weight to the 
shoulder. Her ornaments were few and tastefully arranged. 
We have said she looked like one whose heart was not with 
the gay scene in which she mingled ; for her large, humid 
eyes had in them a meek lovingness, and sometimes a pen- 
sive abstraction, as though the shadow of serious thought had 
fallen early upon them and mingled with their light forever. 
She received gracefully the flattering attentions of the crowd 
from which the heavy curtain had not been able to shield her ; 
for beauty is a born queen and counts her vassals every- 
where ; and, the wife of the American ambassador (such was 
the rank of the lady we have presented) was beautiful enough 
and accomplished enough to command no liitle share of admi- 
ration, even if her position had been less distinguished. 

" You leave us early, Mrs. Russel," remarked a gentleman 
who had just elbowed his way through the crowd in time to 
hear the lady give directions concerning her carriage. " It 
would be worth the while of some of our court geniuses to 
spend their wit m inventing some fascination that should keep 
you with us beyond the magic one hour." 

" Nay, do not attempt it, my lord. I am already quite be- 
wildered by such an array of splendor, and it is only to save 
my poor republican brain a total overthrow that I fly the field 
while I may." 

" Ah ! if that be all, come with me, lady. Yonder is a 
delightful alcove, where a few choice spirits — " 

" Ah ! my lord ! the danger is not always in the broadest 
blaze. I am but a novice in all these enchantments and my 
only safety is in flight." 

" That means, lady bright, that you have conned the lav? 



64 GRACE LINDEN. 

of mercy. But when your fair republic deigns to drop a 
choice star among us, we like not that it should be veiled." 

The lady bent in graceful acknowledgment, and the con- 
versation proceeded more gaily, until Mrs. Eussel's carriage ■ 
was announced to be in readiness ; then his lordship, carefulJy 
wrappmg her cloak about her, handed her to a seat within, 
bowed his head almost to her gloved hand, drew up the glass, 
and the carriage whirled away. In a few moments the lady 
of the ambassador was at her hotel. She tripped lightly up 
the broad stair-case, and flinging cloak and hood into the 
hands of her half-sleeping maid, with a bright smile which 
many a weary belle whom she had left behind might have 
envied, passed onward to an inner apartment. A night lamp 
stood burning on a marble table ; and, as she came near, her 
foot touched some light substance on the floor. It was a 
child's slipper, tiny enough for the foot of Titania herself; 
and, as the mother clasped it in her jewelled hand, there was 
a dewiness in her soft eye, that told how touchingly dear to 
her was everything hallowed by connection with her heart's 
treasures. She paused and bent over the couch of a fair 
sleeping girl, parted the bright curls from her forehead, and 
gazed fondly on the exquisite chiselling, then pressing her lips 
upon that, on the closed eyes and rose-bud mouth, turned lin- 
geringly, and proceeded to the little crib beyond. I-t was the 
nestling place of Cupid himself. The round, rosy face looked 
out from its golden ambush of curls, with almost its waking 
roguishness of expression ; and the fat, white arms were 
clasped determinedly over a little whip, the most petted, be- 
cause the newest of his playthmgs. Those dimpled arms 
received many a fond kiss before they were enveloped in the 
folds of the night-dress ; and the little whip was removed as 
carefully as though it had been the choicest of treasures. 
Then the mother bent again over the fair boy, and while her 
eyes rested lovingly upon him, her heart went up to heaven 
with all those holy aspirations which often shed their halo on 
the path of men when the spirit that breathed them has gone 
to its rest. As the lady emerged from the nursery she was 



GRACE LINDEN. 65 

mot by her husband, and they returned to her dressmg room 
1 togelher. 

" You made a masterly retreat to-night, Grace," he said ; 
" now if I only had half your assurance, I should be as grate- 
ful as grateful can be. Oh,- how I pity those poor ladies that 
must stay and mope to the end of the chapter ! " 

" And how they pity people so little au fait to the ways of 
the world as we are ! Why, only last night, I overheard a 
lady duchess remark of your charming wife, ' poor thing ! how 
new!' and all because she turned in disgust from a very dis- 
gusting scene at a card-table." 

" And were you not very much shocked, Grace ? " 

" Of course, it was a very shocking thing, but I could not 
resist the temptation of turning to assure her grace that it was 
a defect which ijears would remedy. She is as much 
ashamed of being old as though it were a crime." 

" And you of course knew the sensitive point by intuition, 
and touched it in a most lady-like manner. You are a true 
woman, Grace. Who would once have thought of 'my 
Gracey's ' ever tilting with these gossiping court ladies ? Fie ! 
fie ! It is ill-natured of you." 

" It ought to please you, Harry; it proves that I am not 
new. But truth to tell, I am sick myself of this constant 
sharpening of wits never over bright. I am afraid they will 
be worn out before I have my own fireside again to use them 
by. If you had not promised that your public career should 
end Avith this embassy, I verily believe, Harry, that I shoulil 
run away from you, and nestle down in a certain quiet nook 
away in the green woods of New York." 

" You are not so very miserable here, Grace ?" 

" Miserable ! oh, no ! I can afford to go and play my part 
in such a great farce every day, since I may come home to 
you and the children ; and it suits me very well indeed, since 
I know it is not to last." 

" And what think you, dear Grace, of those ladies, who 
have neither husband nor children to go home to ? that is, 



66 GRACE LINDEN. 

those who have both, but scarce see them from week's end to ; 
week's end." j 

" Oh ! they are the initiated — born fine ladies. You know ■ 
I am a butterfly so late from the chrysalis that I have some 
very contracted notions clinging to me — notwithstanding my 
fine wings," she added, glancing at the magnificent plume 
that had formed her principal head ornament for the evening. , 

It will be seen that our old friend Grace was yet unchang- ; 
ed. Prosperity had not turned her head, nor a mawkish' 
sentimentality stepped in to supply the place of heart. She 
had no interminable flood of murmurs to drawl forth against 
the follies that surrounded her, no repinings, no peevish fret- 
fulness ; but on her pillow she did picture a charming little 
retreat, close beside a little village, in which Lizzy and Liz- ■ 
zy's children figured largely ; and a darling old lady, smil- ' 
ingly receiving the homage of loving hearts, occupied the 
foreground. Her own transformation, instead of serving as ' 
food for vanity, amused her with its strangeness ; and philos- 
ophy itself — Diogenes in his tub, and Epicurus in his sen- 
sual elysium — might equally have envied -the cheerful 
equanimity with which a fair American dame could mingle 
in the gayeties of one of the gayest European courts, keeping 
meanwhile close in her heart the little domestic paradise that 
she had loved beyond the seas. Grace Linden (we like not 
to change the name) twined jewels in her hair, fastened the 
broach and clasped the bracelet, and thought no more of 
them ; but there was a plain gold ring that she always looked 
upon with earnest, sometimes with tear-dimmed eyes. When 
no one was near — not even husband or child — the homely 
ornament was often pressed long and fervently to her lips ; 
she would not have bartered that simple ring for the whole 
court's wealth of diamonds ; it had once encircled the pale 
finger of her sister Abby. Eich, costly vases, filled with the 
choicest flowers, made the air of her apartments heavy with i 
perfume, and rare plants wooed the sunlight in her recessed ! 
windows ; but in the midst of all she forgot not to write to 
her brother Frank : " Do not take, as you threatened, that ; 



GRACE LINDEN. 67 

pretty eglantine from the window that was mine the last 

summer I spent at home. It was just scrambling up the 
I third pane then, and you must not let it grow higher, or I 

should never know it. And plant the sweet peas across the 
: little patch down by the currant bushes. I have Avatchel the 

bees by the hour, glancing about them like lost specks of 
, sunshine, and then plunging among the bright leaves with a 

• hearty boldness that made the robbers quite fascinating. Do 
I not change anything, Frank ; you cannot make better the 
:dear, dear spot, and I must find every violet and marigold in 
jits place when I come home." 

) Two years had passed. A light, simple, airy mansion had 
I risen behind an avenue of native forest trees, close by the 
^ unpretending home of the Lindens; and the young lawyer 
[who had commenced his professional career in our small vii- 
jlage some twenty years before, was now its most honored 
citizen. It was a mild autumn evening, and the three fami- 
lies, as was their wont, had gathered in the little parlor, more 
dear to all than any other, because more particularly asso- 
ciated with the hopes, and fears, and loves of other days. 
Half buried in a large cushioned chair, in the corner, sat 
i Mrs. Linden, a very little bent and a good deal wrinkled, 
with her snowy locks parted smoothly on a brow as serene 
as a summer evening, and her sweet mild eyes wandering 
from face to face, in maternal fondness. Close by was her 
I husband, dandling another little pet, that had taken the place 
i of Charley, on his knee, and amusing the company, from 
time to time, with the self-same anecdotes (so the old lady 
1 asserted) that he had told at her father's table during the 
days of his wooing. Tavo lovely women, evidently sisters, 
occupied each an ottoman close beside a work-table, and as 
I one pared with her scissors a little from the neck of a muslin 

• collar, she would lay it on the other's shoulders and smooth 
! it with her hand, and then remove it to her knee again, drop- 
ping, from time to time, those artless remarks which make 
such a poor figure in the telling, but Aveave many a golden 
link in the chain of love. Near to these, a placid matron, a 



68 



GRACE LINDEN. 



year or two older, was leaning- over the shoulder of a fine boy 
engaged with his pencil, and talking in a soft whisper of 
spoiled eyes and aching heads — things so preposterous as to 
set the large, mirthful orbs, at which they particularly pointed, 
in a dance of glee. The village clock was on the stroke of 
nine, when the family party received an accession. Neddy 
Sommers, the pet, sprang from grandfather's knee to father's 
arms, begging to be allowed to sit up just a little while longer; 
a larger, firmer hand began guiding the pencil of the embryo 
artist ; and the manliest figure of the three bent over the arm 
of grandmother's rocking-chair, and listened to her with the 
most respectful tenderness. 

" What is that you were just saying of my lady — Crinkum- 
Crankum — jaw-breaker, Grace?" inquired Frank, replacin^^ 
the pencil in the boy's hand. "You had better look to yo'ir 
wife, Ned Sommers, or all this foreign trash will quite run 
away with her reason." 

" Oh, yes ! " returned Sommers, quietly, and tossing the 
baby within an inch of the ceiling. " I expect no less ; I am 
prepared for any extravagance, even to a livery.". 

"I should be obliged to put it upon you and the childiL.i, 
then," answered Lizzy ; " for I think you gave your last 
' help ' a holyday week, this morning," 

" You had better be upon your good behavior, alt," said 
Grace, " or we will get up an establishment in right princely 
style, and press you into the service. There is Frank, calls 
himself a capital whip, and Mr. Sommers would let down the 
steps with superlative grace, I dare say." 

" Frank," inquired Russel, with a twinkle in his eye, and 
a mischievous curl at the comers of his mouth, " did I ever 
tell you the story of your gracious sister and the footman 
of " 

" Harry ! " 

" You see she don't like me to expose her follies." 

" Oh, tell ! Let us hear ! Give us the story, by all 
means ! " exclaimed three or four voices. 

" Did she mistake him for his master ? " inquired Frank. 

•'ATot exactly, but — " 



GRACE LINDEN. 69 

" Now, Harry ! " and Grace rung the bell violently. 
Small things are matters of mirth where hearts are merry, 
nd the laugh against poor Grace had not had time to sub- 
ide, when a sad little face was thrust in at the door. 

" Nannie, bring ' Mittah Ushil ' a pie — a whole one, mind, 
or he is near starving. Excuse me, Mary; I should not 
iresume to play mistress of the house, but in an extreme case 
ike this. Try that apple, Harry. It may serve your turn 
ill the pie comes." 

" I am sorry to see you so discomposed, Grace," remarked 
Russel, with provoking coolness ; " but since you so earnestly 
liesire it — since," and here he glanced archly at his brothers, 
!* since it is perfectly natural that you should desire it, we 
ivill put the story over till another evening." 
' " What is it, Grace ? " whispered Lizzy. 
! " Oh, a foolish thing. He makes half of it, and it was 
ridiculous enough to begin with. A silly fellow managed to 
get a fine joke upon me. It was nothing at all — but if Frank 
Should hear of it, I should have no peace." 
I " Nannie looks sad, poor child ! " remarked Mary. " She 
^as been telling me to-day that her father is in trouble again." 
' That fellow is incorrigible ! " said Russel. 
' What has happened to him ? " inquired Grace. 
' He is confined in the county jail, as a vagrant," was 
Mary's reply. 

" I do believe he might be made to reform, if proper means 
twere taken. Nannie came to me to-day, with streaming 
jeyes. and said, if the gentlemen would but procure his release 
I'this once more, she would coax him to be good and industri- 
lous. She was sure he would n't drink any more, when he 
[Isaw how badly she felt — and it was all the drink, she kne^v 
i.it was. Her father was too kind to do Avrong when he was 
!in his right mind. I wish something could be done." 
[ " Something must be done," said Grace, earnestly. " We 
:know the good that is in Dick Grouse better than police- 
officers, and a seat at the table beside Nannie, in your kitch- 
en, Mary, would do more to reform him than all the jails in 



70 GRACE LINDEN. 

the county. You will sec him, Harry, in the morning, will 
you not ? " 

" If 1 coLilJ be as sanguine as you and Mary. However, , 
the poor wretch must not be given up. We shall be obliged 1 1 
to allow him another trial — a half-dozen more, very likely." ! 

" If you could get upon some plan, Harry, to employ him, i 
and have him under your immediate care — " 

" It would be a somewhat troublesome care, Grace." 

" I mean, keep him where he will believe you have a con- •, 
stunt interest in him. Then I might take pains to drop a i! 
word to him, now and then, which would have some influence. .' 
I can't believe that he is past hope yet." 

" I believe," said Sommers, " no man is past hope, as long 
as proper means are taken to reform him." 

" Then if the means be all, consider Dick Grouse a useful 
citizen hereafter ; for with such a superabundance of means 
as we have here, neglecting him would be a greater sin than 
any he ever committed." 

" If means were all, there would be few vicious people 
within the sphere of your influence, Grace," exclaimed her 
husband, with affectionate pride. " At any rate, Sommers, 
we will give your theory a trial, and if Grace fail — " 

" She will not fail," returned the brother; "such as she 
never do." 

" Good! And now, Ned, as a kind of 'a reward for that > 
handsome compliment, you shall have the story of the foot- • 
man. Don't 'oh, Harry' me, Grace; I will leave the em-? 
bellishments for another day. You must know that a certaia| 
nobleman whom we met abroad, had a servant so much given 'i 
to his cups, that he could not be trusted. He was a good, , 
honest fellow, and a favorite withal, and so every means had ' 
been used to reform him that could be devised, but without suc- 
cess. The worst of it was, he had an aged grandmother and 
blind sister entirely dependent on him ; and when in his sober 
senses, he would plead their cause so eloquently that it was 
impossible not to be moved by his entreaties. At last, how- 
ever, his master became exasperated, and refused to keep him 



OKACE LIA'DKN. 71 

another day. Grace happened to be a witness to this scene, 
and became a sort of sponsor for the fellow." 

' That is all, Harry ; only he never became intoxicated 
again." 

" Oh, if you could have seen him, drunk as he was, blub 
bering away on her — not hand but foot I We all laughed — " 

" Ah, Harry ! All those pocket-handkerchiefs were not 
hurried out so suddenly to cover nothing but a laugh. The 
truth is, there were tears in more eyes than mine ; and well 
there might be, for the poor fellow's gratitude would have 
stirred up the very stones to feeling." 

" I never saw a scene more ludicrously pathetic, and what 
with weeping and what with laughing, the drunken footman 
had the honor of producing quite a sensation. But it seems 
that Grace was not altogether satisfied with this demonstra- 
tion, and so — " 

" You are too bad, Harry ! " 

" And so she took her opportunity to draw a promise from 
him, and the pledge was sealed by a ring, which he was to 
wear until he had broken his word. Afterwards, whenever 
she met him, at the house of his master or in the public 
street, he would bow low, as though again in search of the 
lady's foot, and hold up the finger with the ring upon it. At 
first, we paid no attention to it ; but after a while, Grace 
began to blush — " 

" You looked so comically — " 

" And you so confused ! Oh, Grace, you ought to thank 
me for giving the story such a favorable version." 

" I do, Harr}-- ; for it is the first time that you have told it 
correctly, and I was not quite sure before that — that — " 

" That I was not jealous of the poor footman, eh ? " 

" That you thought I did right." 

" You never do wro7ig, Grace I " 

" And never did since she was a little baby in my arms," 
broke ia the tremulous voice of grandmother. " Abby told 
me, on her dying bed, that Grace would be a blessing to the 
family, and she told mc true." 



72 GRACE LINDEN. 

" True ! true ! " repeated Mr. Linden, in the deep tones 
of emotion. 

Lizzy's arm was twined around her sister, their two hearts 
beating together ; a large round tear-drop stole silently down 
the manly cheek of the brother ; and the proud husband bent 
his eloquent eyes on her who was for the moment the focus 
of all eyes, in deeper, holier admiration than ever stirred the 
pulses of an unwedded lover. 



V3 



CLINGING TO EARTH. 

DO not let me die ! the earth is bright, 
And I am earthly, so I love it well ; 

Though heaven is holier, all replete with light, 
Yet I am frail, and with frail things would dwelL 

1 cannot die ! the flowers of earthly love 

Shed their rich fragrance on a kindred heart ; 
There may be purer, brighter flowers above, 
But yet with these 't would be too hard to part. 

I dream of heaven, and well I love these dreams, 
They scatter sunlight on my varying way ; 

But 'mid the clouds of earth are priceless gleams 
Of brightness, and on earth let me stay. 

It is not that my lot is void of gloom. 

That sadness never circles round my heart; 

Nor that I fear the darkness of the tomb, 
That I would never from the earth depart. 

*T is that I love the world — its cares, its sorrows. 
Its bounding hopes, its feelings fresh and warm. 

Each cloud it wears, and every light it borrows. 
Loves, wishes, fears, the sunshine and the storm ; 

I love them all : but closer still the loving 

Twine with my being's cords and make my life ; 

And while within this sunlight I am mo\'ing, 
I well can bide the storms of worldly strife. 

Then do not let me die ! for earth is bright, 
And I am earthly, so I love it well — 

Heaven is a land of holiness and light, 

But I am frail, and with the frail would dwell. 
1 



74 



ASPIRING TO HEAVEN. 

Yes, let me die ! Am I of spirit-birth, 

And shall I linger here where spirits fell, 
Loving the stain they cast on all of earth ? 

make me pure, with pure ones e'er to dwell! 

'Tis sweet to die ! The flowers of earthly love, 
(Fair, frail, spring blossoms) early droop and die 

But all their fragrance is exhaled above, 
Upon our spirits evermore to lie. 

Life is a dream, a bright but fleeting dream, 

1 can but love ; but then my soul awakes, 
And from the mist of earthliness a gleam 

Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks. 

I shrink not from the shadows sorrow flings 
Across my pathway ; nor from cares that rise 

In every foot-print ; for each shadow brings 
Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and flies. 

But heaven is dearer. There I haA^e my treasure . 

There angels fold in love their snowy wings ; 
There sainted lips chant in celestial measure. 

And spirit fingers stray o'er heav'n-wrought strings. 

There loving eyes are to the portals straying ; 

There arms extend, a wanderer to fold ; 
There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying 

His oion in spotless robes and crowns of gold. 

Then let me die. My spirit longs for heaven, 

In that pure bosom evermore to rest ; 
But, if to labor longer here be given, 

"Father, thy will be done !" and I am blest. 



7h 



UNDER HILL COTTAGE. 

Nay, reader mine, it is all a mistake, all — Fanny Forester 
could not breathe (for a long time) in New York or Albany, 
or any otlier pavement-cribbed spot of earth, that men seem 
to have leased of the Hand that made it, to torture into unnat- 
ural shapes for their own undoing-. No, no ! Give her 

" the fresh green wood, 



The forest's fretted aisles, 
And leafy domes above them bent, 

And solitude, 
So eloquent ! 
Mocking the varied skill that 's blent 

In art's most gorgeous piles — " 

Give her this, and " other things to accord," and then — a fig 
for all town attractions ! 

Wouldst see, sympathetic public, the little nestling-place, 
almost in the wilderness, to which ' Bel ' Forester's country 
cousin is most warmly Avelcomcd after a half-year's absence ^ 
Then turn thy myriad-footed locomotives thitherward, (forest- 
ward, I mean,) as soon as the swelling buds begin to burst, iu 
the spring-time, and the odor of fresh turf and apple-blossoms 
is o;it upon the air. Nay, straighten that curl in the lip, and 
drop the uplifted eye-brow. What if it be a simple spot ? 
Simplicity is a rare thing, now-a-days ; and the people of the 
great world have a wondrous liking for Avhat is rare. jMorc- 
over, I doubt if they had purer dews, or softer airs, or brighter 
waters, whtere the Euphrates tinkled the first note of time, 
and the breath was borne to the lips of our mother upon an 
angel's wing. I am not sure that there are any angels here ; 
but the flowers sometimes have a look to them that makes me 
afraid to break their stems ; and there are moments when it 



76 UNDERHILL COTTAGE. 

would require infinite daring to toss a pebble into the brook ; 
for who can tell but it might hush one of those voices thai 
sing to me in the holy solitude ? The trees, too, have a 
strange lovingness, leaning over the brook protectingly, and 
shadowing the little violets, as many a high spirit stoops to 
watch over a poor human blossom. Oh ! there are beating 
pulses in the trees, and I love them, because I know there is 
a Great Heart somewhere, that keeps them all in motion. 

Perhaps But you shall not be told all the things that 

have been whispered in my ear by those fresh-lipped leaves, 
when not a mortal foot was nearer than the far-off road ; 
though feet enow were tripping it over the grass blades, and 
a listener sat perched on every spray. Page on page of spirit- 
lore have I gathered there ; but I have closed the book now, 
and " clasped it with a clasp." That is my wealth, and I am 
a miser. 

Come to Alderbrook, I say, in the spring time, for the 
crackle of the wood fire, by which I am writing, might be a 
music which would scarce please you ; and, sooth to say, our 
winter cheer offers little that is inviting to a pleasure-seeker. 
It is well to take to the turf when you reach the toll-gate at 
the foot of the hill ; for the road has a beautiful green margni 
to it, grateful to feet sick of the dust of a day's ride. It is 
not a difficult walk to the top, as I well know ; having climbed 
it a score of times every year, since first I chased a playful 
little racer of a squirrel along the crooked fence, fully per- ; 
suaded that there was some sudden way of taming it, not- • 
withstanding its evident scorn of the peeled nut, which I hela j 
coaxingly between my thumb and fore-finger. High hilk-, , 
skirted by forests, are rising on the right; and on the left, is 
a slope, terminating in a deep gorge, through which the little < 
brook tinkles, as though myriads of fairy revellers tripped it j 
there, to the music of their own silver bells. Perched on the ; 
top of the hill, is a tall, weather-painted house, of a contracted j 
make ; though, like some people, whose mental dimensions ; 
have been narrowed, with a very smart, uppish air about it ; 
and fronting it, away down in a deep, wild ravine, is an old, , 



UNDERBILL COTTAGE. I < 

moss-growTi saw-mill. It has been forsaken this many a long 
year ; the wheel is broken, and the boards are rotting away ; 
but yet it is verily believed by many, that the old saw still 
uses its rusty teeth o' nights, and that strange, unholy guests, 
keep wassail there, at the expense of a poor mortal long since 
mouldering in his shroud. Alas I for thee, old Jake Gawes- 
ley I It was a fearful thing to raise such a pile of worldly 
possessions between thyself and humanity ! How gladly 
woiildst thou, in that last hour, have bought, with the whole 
of them, a single love-softened hand to soothe, with such a 
tourli as love only knows, thy throbbing temple I Oh! it is 
a horrible thing to turn from the world, and bear not away 
till' pure passport of a mourner's tear ! Thy grave has never 

watered by the dews distilled from a human heart, like 
iower-planted ones around it; the small grey stone at its 

is broken, and no one cares to replace it ; and the thistle 

- to the wind above thee. It is said that this saw-mill 

was erected on an orphan's rights ; and men are as fond of 

the doctrine of retribution, as though they never sinned. 

Hence the superstition. 

You will see, from this point, the little village of Alder- 
brook, so near, that j'^ou may count every house in it. There 
are two pretty churches ; one on the top of the rise called 
" The Hill," the other nestled down in a very sweet spot on 
" The Flat." Then Ave have, besides, the seminary made 
memorable by poor Jem Fletcher ; a district school-house, 
painted red ; and a milliner's shop, painted yellow ; three 
stores, two taverns, (one with a sign-post, once tantalizing to 
my young eyes, so candy-like did it look in its coat of white, 
with a wisp of crimson about it,) a printing office, in which 
the " Alderbrook Sun " rises of a Wednesday morning ; a 
temple of Vulcan, and two or three other establishments, 
sacred to the labors of our native artisans. 

As you pass along, you will find the road lined with berry- 
bushes and shad-trees, now (it is spring, you know) white 
with their bride-like clusters of delicate blossoms ; and many 
a thick-shaded maple and graceful elm will wisjx that you 
7* 



78 UNDEKHILL COTTAGE. 

had waited till midsummer, when they might have been of 
service to you. Very hospitable trees are those about Alder- 
brook. 

You are within a quarter of a mile of the village ; and 
now the fence on the left diverges from the roadside, making 
a pretty backward curve, as though inviting you to follow it 
down the hill. A few steps farther, and you look down upon 
the coziesii of little cottages, snuggled close in the bosom of 
the green slope, with its white walls and nice white lattice- 
work, looking, amid those budding vines, all folding their 
arms about it, like a living sleeper under the especial protec- 
tion of Dame Nature. Do you feel no desire to step from the 
road where you stand, to the tip of the chimney, Avhich seems I 
so temptingly near, and thence to plant your foot on the bniw 
of the hill over the brook? It may be that you are a sol •- 
minded individual, and never had any break-neck propensii 
may be you never longed to lose your balance on the wrung 
side of a three-story window, or take a ride on a water-wheel, 
or a sail on a sheet of foam down Niagara, or even as much 
as put your fingers between the two teethed rollers of a wool-i 
carder. There are people in the world so common-place aa 
to have no taste for " deeds of lofty daring." 

There are eglantines and roses grouped together by the 
windows ; and a clematis wreathes itself, fold on fold, and 
festoon above festoon, in wasteful luxuriance, about the trellis 
that fences in the little old-fashioned portico. You wondei 
how any horse-vehicle ever gets down there, and may think 
the descent rather dangerous ; but it is accomplished with 
poifect ease. A carriage cannot turn about, however, and is 
obliged to pass up on the other side. The house is very low 
in front, and has an exceedingly timid, modest bearing, as :g 
sometimes the case even with houses ; but when you see ;1. 
from the field-side, it becomes quite a different affair. The 
view from within is of fields and woodland ; with now and 
then a glittering roof or speck of white peering through the 
trees between us and the. neighboring village. The backi 
parlor window looks out upon a little garden, just below it ; 



UNDERHILL COTTAGE. 79 

ami beyond is a beautiful meadow, sloping back down to the 
brook. From this window you have a view full of wild 
sweetness ; for nature has been prodigal of simple gifts here ; 
land we have never been quite sure enough that art would do 
[better by us, to venture on improvements. So the spotted 
lily rears its graceful stem down in the valley, and the gay 
,*phlox spreads out its crimson blossoms undisturbed. There 
khe wild plum blushes in autumn with its worthless fruit ; 
rthe gnarled birch looks down on the silver patches adorning 
its shaggy coat, quite unconscious of ugliness ; and the alders, 
!the dear, friendly alders, twist their speckled limbs into any 
jshape they choose, till they reach the height that best pleases 
khem, and then they droop — little brown tassels pendant from 
each tiny stem — over the bright laugher below, as though 
ready, every dissembler of them, to take an oath that they 
grew only for that worship. There are stumps a-plenty, 
rking where the forest used to be ; and growing from the 
decayed roots of each, you will be sure to find a raspberry, 
purple currant, or gooseberry bush, or at least a wild col- 
umbine, whose scarlet robe and golden heart make it quite 
welcome. We like the stumps for the sake of their pretty 
adornments, and so they have let them stand. (Would you 
know who we and they are ? come, then, at evening ; you 
shall be most cordially welcomed ; for, the kindly forbearance 
with which you have looked upon the first simple efforts of 
e there beloved, has made you quite the friend.) 
Beyond the brook, rises a hill, bordered on one side by a 
wild of berry bushes, and on the other, by broken rocks, with 
little wizard of a stream, leaping, like an embodied spirit of 
mischief, from fragment to fragment, with a flash, and a clear 
Ijsilvery laugh, to which, I believe, the inhabitants of Under- 
] ihill Cottage owe the gay bubble dancing on the brim of every 
n heart. The hill (Strawberry Hill we call it, and if you had 
j I come to us last midsummer, you should have knovm the 
ii wherefore) is capped with hemlocks, with sprinklings of 
;; beech, ash, elm and maple, that, in autumn-time, make an 
i; exceedingly gay head-dress for it; and, peeping out from 



80 UNDERiriLL COTTAGE. 



their midst, stands the log-cabin of an Indian woman, who ia 
said to have been a hundred years old when she wove my 
first blossom-stained rattle-box. Last year she went aboul 
with her thick blanket, which passed over her shiny hair, 
fastened under the chin, and surmounted by an old woollen 
hat ; and, on her arm, a huge basket, inside of which was n 
smaller one, and a still smaller one in that, until they dimin- 
ished to the size of a fitting shell for the nest of a humming- 
bird. But now, sadly do we miss the little curl of silver that 
used to rise so gracefully above the trees ; for the log-dwelling 
is deserted, and its age-worn owner sleeps in the grave-yard. 
Dear old Polly ! many a son of ambition, with his laurels on 
his brovv', will be laid in his cofiin, crowds trooping ostenra- 
tiously after, with fewer tears to embalm his ashes in, than 
thy humble virtues won for thee. 

A little way from the bridge, is an immense elm tree,! 
draped in green down to the very roots ; and just where the 
shadow of its massive top falls heaviest at noon-day, is a 
little — for want of a more descriptive name, I must call it a 
bower. Dear was the boyish hand that tied those branches 
together, and trained the wild grape-vine over all, because a 
little sister sometimes wished for a dreaming-place more 
exclusive than the old ledge on the hill-side, or the shadow 
of the black cherry-tree in the meadow — dear was that 
kindly hand ; and none the less dear is it now that it may 
never again rest upon the head it has toyed with hours and 
hours together, long before the mildew of disappointment 
had spread itself upon our hearth-stone. These days are 
passed forever and forever ; but bless God for the rich memo- 
ries clinging to every shrub, and tree, and hillock ! What is 
there in all the gay visions dancing before us, one-half so 
dearly grateful as a single love-glance, a word, a smile, a 
tear, a touch of the hand, a kindly act, embalmed in the heart 
when it is young, to keep in flower the spot where it lies, 
until it has ceased its wearied pulsations ? Hope is a butter- 
fly, and Imagination loves to chase it from flower to flower, 
and from glitter to glitter ; but Memory is an angel, that 



UNDERHILL COTTAGE. 81 

I ^omes in the holy night-time ; and, folding its wings beside 
las, forges silently those golden links, which, as years wear 
I fway, connect the spirit, however world-worn, with its first 
"reshness. But I am dreaming, when I should not. 
; Come in the spfing-time to Alderbrook, dear friend of 
nine, whatever name thou bearest; come \vhen the little 
lirds are out, careering, stark mad with joyousness, on their 
i;iddy wings; when the air is softest, and the skies are 
[|irightcst; come, and I will cut the nib from my pen, owning, 
yith a right good will, its clumsy inefficiency ; and then, 
mid bursting buds and out-gushing music, thou shall have 
ar less reason than now, to complain of the dulness of ihy 



82 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

We have our excitements at Alderbrook, as well as in you 
great Babel of " brotherly love," (love like that of the firj 
brothers, I have heard it insinuated,) but the doctrine of caus 
and effect has a slight twist-alout between the two places 
which might puzzle a philosopher. In your great city,; 
great cause produces a small effect ; in our small village, i 
small cause produces a great effect. Does a barn or a blacii, 
smith's shop take fire at Alderbrook, the whole village — meii; 
v.'omen and children — are up and out ; and it furnishes mat 
ter for conversation at every tea-party during a year, at least 
With you, a whole street may burn down, while you li 
quietly snoozing in your beds, or mentally denounce " tha 
noisy engine," between naps ; and in less than a week th 
whole affair passes from the minds of all but the suflerers ; 
You may see a dozen hearses move by in one day, and neve 
be sobered by it ; is there a death in our village, the shadov 
falls on every hearthstone, and a long, solemn train of weep \ 
ing mourners (the mourning town) leave their various avo ; 
cations and amusements, and go to lay the sleeper in the dust 
Oh ! let me die in the country, where I shall not fall, like thi 
single leaf in the forest, unheeded ; where those who love mi , 
need not mask their hearts to meet the careless multitude ■ 
and strive as a duty to forget. Bury me in the country, 
amid the prayers of the good and the tears of the loving; no 
in the dark, damp vault, away from the sweet-scented air ant: 
the cheerful sunshine ; but in the open field, among the flow 
ers I loved and cherished while living. Then — 

" If around my place of sleep 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go ; 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb." 



I LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. S3 

But to return to our contrasts. A ruffian meets a stranger 
. .n a dark alley, and stabs him to the heart, for the sake of 
} Delf ; another whips his Avife to death, or perhaps butchers a 
i rtrhole family. The lawyers and paragraphists are thereby 
"urnished with employment — for which they are of course 
.haukful — and, except in extreme cases, no one else cares, 
{t is quite different with us. A drunken Indian murdered a 
svhite man, at Alderbrook, some twenty years ago, and paid 
'Jhe penalty of his crime, near the foot of the slope, at the 
West end of the village, while thousands on thousands stood 
japing at the terrible spectacle. This tale, whispered to me 
n the dark, furnished one of the gloomy visions which used 
;o haunt my childhood ; and I would as soon have taken the 
rip that Orpheus did, as go within a quarter of a mile of 
the spot where old Antoine was hung." The same story, 
in all its horrible and disgusting details, is to this day re- 
peated and re-repeated by many a gossip of our village, 
(^hile jaws drop, and eyes stand out with terror, and every 
stirring leaf or quivering shadow causes a start of alarm ; for 
,t is said that the troubled ghost of old Antoine still walks 
ap and down the forests of Alderbrook. With you, picked 
pockets are such every-day and every-hour things, as to 
excite no attention at all, except perhaps a laugh now and 
then, when the feat has been performed with unusual adroit- 
but if an axe disappear from a door at Alderbrook, or 
couple of yards of linen are taken from the grass in the 
ight-time, the whole village is in commotion, and wonders. 
and guesses, and sagacious nods and mysterious innuendoes, 
constitute, for a month at least, the staple of social intercourse. 
I You will not think strange, then, when I tell you of the 
flwonderful excitement that has fairly swept every other topic 
under with us, for more than six months past. It has been 
suspected for a long time, that a band of thieves existed some- 
where in our quiet county ; but such crimes are so unusual 
here, that no one likes to be the first to give them a name ; 
so, though every washerwoman put her wet linen under lock 
.and key at dewfall, and stables were double-locked and shops 



84 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

double-guarded, the careful ones only shook their heads mys 
teriously, as though something lay at the bottom of their 
knowledge, which they might tell, but that they were too 

generous, while others scouted at the idea of county's 

harbormg such rogues. At last, however, some who had lost 
to an uncomfortable degree, began to speak more plainly, and 1 
incredulity wavered. Finally, one night toward the lattei' 
end of last May, a farm-house in the neighborhood was fired, 
obviously (that is, it was obvious when too late) for the pur- 
pose of drawing away the villagers, while the principal shop 
ill Alderbrook was despoiled of its most valuable goods. 
Such a daring deed ! said everybody. It was now supposed 
that the villany must have been carried on for years, andi! 
many persons who like a large story, declared that the band 
must consist of at least fifty men. There had not been such 
an excitement here since the execution of poor old Antoiiie. 
One man was arrested on suspicion, and flattered and threat- 
ened by turns, in the hope of bringing him to confess. At 
last, he promised to do this, and betray his associates, pro- 
vided he could be assured of his own safety. This was the 
latest news which reached us one evening toward midnight, 
and so we concluded to pillow our curiosity until morning. 

" They have diskivered the robbers, at last," said old Uncle 
Felix Graw, hurrying, all out of breath, into our breakfast 
parlor, and throwing his ungainly figure into one chair, while 
he stretched his long legs to another. " They have diskiv- 
ered the robbers, neighbor Forester, every one of 'em ! " 

Down went forks and up went eye-brows in a twinkling, 
and old Uncle Felix was the focus of all regards, much to 
the detrnnent of the smoking muffins which Nancy had just 
placed on the table. 

" What ! how ! who are they. Uncle Felix ? Nobody be- 
longing to Alderbrook, I hope." 

" Not exactly, though the village has just escaped by the 
skin of the teeth ; Jem White is in for it." 

" What ! that scape-grace of a son of honest Jacky ? Poor 
old fellow ! this will be worse for him than digging in ' the 
mud, with the ' rheumatis ' in his shoulder." 



LITTLE MOLLY WIUTL. 85 

*' The old man never has had very comforlable Umes with 
fern," said Uncle Felix. " He is the laziest fellow this side 
pf purgatory, bat I never thought he would be caught in such 
i sorry piece of business as this. They say it will go hard 
with the rascals — burglary and arson both." 

' The old story of idleness and crime. Poor Jacky ! I pity 
him ! " 

' Everybody pities him ; and for one, if I could catch Jem 
White, I 'd give him a thrashing that he would n't forget 
jwhen he was gray, and let him go, the scoundrel ! for his 
father's sake." 

' Then he has not been taken ? " 

' No, but there is no doubt he will be. Dick Holman, 
(the cringing sarpent ! I could pound him to pomicc-stone, for 
[ have no idee but he druv on the whole lot,) Dick Holuian 
bas blabbed, turned state's evidence, to save himself, and 
posed the whole of 'em. Great good will the state get 
from such a rascally knave as he is ; and a great honor is it 
to the laws, to pay a premium for such abominable sneaking 
meanness ! I would n't mind to see th? rest in iron wrist- 
bands, (barring Jemmy White, for his father's sake,) but 
Dick Holman, the mean, cowardly villain ! hanging is too 
good for him." 

" How many have they taken 1 " 

" Three, last night. Dick Holman helped them hide, and 
so betrayed them. One has been traced as far as Albany, 
and another to Rochester. They will get clear, I dare say ; 
biit Jem White has skulked aWay by himself, and nobody 
knows where he is. There were only seven on 'em." 

* Do you know where White was last seen ? " 

'He was sneaking about, Saturday evening; he even had 
ihe barefacedness to go into Willard's grocery and get a glass 
of grog. Some pretend to be sure that they saw him yester- 
day, but folks make a thousand mistakes in such cases ; but 
at any rate, it is pretty certain he must be somewhere in 
the neighborhood yet. The old 'Sun' press worked hard, I 
tell you, last night ; and, before this time, the handbills are 



S6 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

scattered far and wide, so that he can't get away. And ] 
would n't give an oat-straw for his hiding-place, with Did 
Holman to scent him out. He was prowling about after him 
before sunrise this morning, and trust him for a blood-hound, 
any day. Ugh I if they should let such a chap as that gc 
scot-free, I, for one, should rather fancy speaking to Judge , 
Lynch about it." 

No wonder that honest Felix Graw should be exasperated 
against the traitorous knave, who, after leading all the idle 
yo'^ng fellows that would listen to him into iniquity, turned 
(UViberately about, and, to save himself, delivered his victims 
into the hands of justice. Dick Holman had been for year= 
the pest of the neighborhood — one of those dirty, cringing ^ 
plausible villains, whom everybody despises, but upon whom 
it is difficult to fix any crime. When, however, it was dis- 
covered that a regular system, of robbery had been carried on 
throughout the county, probably for several years, suspicion 
busied herself at once with the name of Dick Holman; and 
before he had time to concoct any plan for escape, before lie 
even knew himself suspected, he was seized and brought, by 
means of threats and promises, to divulge all he knew. And 
a more rotten-hearted traitor never existed; for now that his 
own precious person was in danger, there was no indignity . 
to which he would not submit, and no act in which he would 
not gladly engage, (even to hunting for his most reluctant 
pupil, poor Jem White,) in order to buy himself consideration. 
As for young White, he received but little sympathy except ou 
his father's account ; but old honest Jacky was, in his way, 
a great favorite at Alderbrook. There was scarcely a young 
man in the village for whom he had not conjured whistles 
out of r. slip of bass-wood, in days gone by ; and scarce an i 
old one but owed him, poverty-stricken as he was, some gen- ' 
erous neighborly turn. Then it was from honest Jacky that 
we always learned where the blackberries grew thickest ; and 
he brought wild-wood plants for our gardens, and supplied 
the old ladies with wintergreens and sweet flag roots to 
munch of a Sunday. But it was scarce these little acts 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. S7 

which made old Jacky While so universally respected. He 
was the kindest and simplest of old men, kind to man and 
beast ; and if but a worm lay in his path, he would " tread 
Mide and let the reptile live." Toil, toil, toil, from morning 
till night, and from year to year — toil, toil, toil was the lot 
of honest Jacky ; but not a Avord of complaint ever escaped 
from his lips ; he was contented and cheerful, and scrupu- 
lously honest. Fortune had treated him most scurvily; for 
notwithstanding his patient, unremitting industry, he had 
' Hever known at one breakfast what should serve him for the 
'next. After all, however, I do not know as it is quite be- 
'coming for me to rail at fortune, since he never did ; and, 
moreover, it is possible that the artless old man was as much 
; lin the fault about the matter as the partial and fickle goddess. 
• ; Days went by, and nothing was known of Jemmy White. 
iSo confident was everybody of the impossibility of his having 
I made his escape, that parties were still out in search of him 
ii — and the zeal of Dick Holman was indefatigable. The 
I 'village was still in a state of feverish excitement, and the 
[ i" stores " were thronged with people from the remote parts of 
Ithe town, who flocked in to trade and hear the news. 
I I was out in my little back garden one bright morning, 
I spoiling the doings of the wanton summer wind, which had 
'had quite a frolic among my treasures the night before ; when 
i old Bridget came to the door on tiptoe, with her finger on her 
I ;iip, and her gown, scarce full enough or rich, enough to make 
I imucli of a rustle, gathered up in her hand. " Fanny, Fan- 
I 'ny ! 3t ! " Bridget spoke in a suppressed whisper, showing 
I 'all her teeth in the operation, as though, by drawing her lips 
i far back, she might give the words egress with less noise. 
" What now, Bridget?" 

" Hush, Fanny, dear ! 'st !" and putting the fore-finger of 
one hand to her lip, she beckoned with the other, making a 
motion with the elbow joint very much like that of a jack- 
; knife with a spring at the back. 

; Bridget is always having secrets, and shaking her head, 
and looking solemnly wise, and finding strange mysteries, 



S8 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

which to everybody else are as clear as the sunlight ; so 1 
may be pardoned if I did wait to tie up a sweet pea, and give j 
three pretty rose-buds a more desirable position among the I 
wet leaves. 

" Fanny, darling ! " was again breathed from the opened 
doorway. 

" Yes, Bridget !" 

" Hush, dear ! 'st ! " and Bridget beckoned more earnestly 
than ever. There was no resisting such importunity, so for- 
ward Fanny wer.t, fully expecting to find a chicken with two 
hearts, or a biscuit that had hopped out of the oven mysteri- 
ously, or (an every-day occurrence) a churn fuU of cream thati; 
needed a horse-shoe in it. 

" Look, Fanny, look ! is n't she pretty ? " 

Pretty ! Old Bridget has some taste at least. Beautiful 
as a vision of Paradise ! I held in my breath while gazing, as 
my good old nurse had done, and very probably kept my lips 
out of its way precisely in her fashion. There is always a 
shade of grey in the passage leading to the kitchen; and 
here, in the sober light, sat a little child sleeping. One arm 
was straightened, showing the pretty dimple at the elbow, the ' 
fat little hand supporting her weight upon the floor, while the , 
other grasped, as though by way of a balance, a basket of 
green lettuce, which had wilted during her long walk in the 
morning sun. The shoulder of the supporting arm had '. 
slipped up from the torn calico frock, and its polished white- | 
ness contrasted beautifully with the sun-embrowned cheek. 
The light golden hair lay in waves, pushed far back from her 
round forehead, and was gathered up into a knot, half curls, . 
half tangles, behind, probably to keep it out of her way ; but ' 
carelessly as it was disposed of, it could scarce have been as ^ 
beautiful in any other fashion. Dim as the light was, a beam ' 
had contrived to find its way to the curve of her head, and ' 
left a dash of brightness on it, no ill omen to the wearied little 
stranger. Long lashes lay against the bright cheek, all spark- 
ling in crystal ; for the tear that could not climb over it, had ' 
turned the little valley about the eye into a well — a very i 



M LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 89 

pretty one for truth to lie in. The child had probably wept 
berself to sleep ; but her little spirit had gone to a land of 
brighter things now, for the smile that curved her beautiful 
lips had none of the premature sadness bathing the shut eye- 
lids. There were broad gaps in the clumsy shoes that lay 
beside her, for she had relieved herself of the incumbrance, 
and her chubby little feet, stained with the purple flowers 
which she had crushed in her morning's ramble, were cooling 
themselves against the bare floor. 

" It is nobody but little Molly White, Miss," said Nancy, 

I .coming forward, with the pot-lid in her hand. Nancy's voice 
is none of the softest, and again Bridget's teeth and tongue 
.were put in requisition, and her lips parted to emit the expos- 

ijtulatory " 'st, 'st I " 

Ij " And who is little IMoUy White ? " 

I I " Don't you remember Molly White, who used to go trip- 
'iping by every day last summer, as merry as a bird, to soil 

|blackberries to the villagers, never seeming tired, though she 
|had to walk three miles across the woods, and pick her berries 
jbesides — poor thing! But I remember now it was when 
lyou were in the city, at your Uncle Forester's, you know ; 
.for you did n't come home till the plums were all gone, and 
ithe leaves were pretty much off the trees." 

' Does she belong in any way to old Jacky White, who 
lives in the Avoods beyond the hill ? " 

" The very same. Miss. Old Jacky's last wife was a 
young woman, and sort of delicate like, and she died, poor 
thing, when Molly was but little more than a baby. She 
always said though that she did n't suffer nor want for any- 
thing, for the children were all amazing good to her ; and 
Jem, bad as he is now, nursed her almost as carefully as a 
woman. Poor thing ! she would feel sorrowful enough if she 
knew what a dreadful end he had come to, for she loved him 
as she did her own blessed child." 

" I have seen pretty MoUj"- many a time when she was a 
baby. She seems heavy-hearted enough now, poor child ! 
we must try to cheer her up." 
8* 



90 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

" It 's of no use, Miss ; she takes Jem's misfortune to heart 
terribly." 

" Misfortune ! But you are right, Nancy. The vicious, 
though justice in the shape of legal officers do not hunt them 
down, are the unfortunate of this world." 

Our conversation seemed to disturb the sleeper, for sud- 
denly her cheeks flushed, her eye-lids worked convulsively, 
her bright lips quivered like a little bird so frightened as 
scar;e to struggle for liberty, and the pretty arm which sup- •, 
ported her shook beneath the weight. 

" It seems cruel to wake her," said old Bridget, compas- • 
sionately. " This is a sorry bad world for such as she is, 
poor innocent ! " 

The child seemed yet more agitated, and tossed her fat ' 
round arms above her head, while a broken sob came strug- 
gling forth, arid, in a voice laden with heart-ache, she ex- 
claimed, " You shall not take him ! it was n't he that did it ! " 

" Molly ! Molly ! " exclaimed Nancy. 

" Mother said we must love one another when her lips were . 
cold, and I Avill. I will love poor Jemmy. You shan't — oh, , | 
you shan't take him away ! " 

" Molly ! Molly ! " repeated Nancy, more emphatically, , 
and shaking the child's shoulder. 

" No, I will not tell ; never — never — never ! " 

" Molly White ! Molly !" Nancy raised tlie child to herr 
feet, who looked about her a few moments, in a kind of be- 
wildered alarm, and then burst into a passion of tears, which i 
nothing could soothe. 

Poor suffering little one ! that the dregs which usually ; 
await a sterner lip, should be upon the brim of thy beaker ! I 
that the drop which sparkles on the surface of life's bowl, , 
shouid be deadened in childhood's tears ! the flowers which i 
crown it, concealing the strange mixture for a little time from ! 
eyes like thine, fallen, withered, dead ! It was a bitter, bitter • 
draught first presented thee by Fate, (may I miscall it — by 
sin,) sweet Molly "White. What strange contrasts does this 
world present ! That day so bright, so beautiful, so replete 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 91 

with the evcrpvhere outgushing spirit of joyousness, and that 
poor little heart aching with such misery as the guilty ever 
bring to those who love them ! No wonder that old Bridget 
and even Nancy, (blessings on their kind souls !) should be 
strangely blinded by the gathering tears as they led the child 
away. Throw me out, A\Tetched and friendless, on the wide 
world, and I am not sure but I should creep to the kitchen 
rather than the parlor, though I know that generosity, and 
kindness, and sympathy, are the inheritance of no one condi- 
tion in life. 

It was a glorious day in the beginning of June. Beauty 
smiled up from the earth ; beauty bent to us from the briglit 
sky ; beauty, a delicious, all-pervading kind of beauty, which 
often makes the spirit drunk with happiness, shone out upon 
us everywhere. It was not a day to be wasted in-doors, when 
the balmy airs, the warm wet skies, and the quivering life-full 
foliage, were all wooing without ; and we have no hot pave- 
ments to flash back the light into our faces, or cramped-up 
streets, where the air is stifled into sickliness before it meets 
us, at Alderbrook. The broad wavy meadow, spangled all 
over with bright blossoms, is our magnificent thoroughfare ; 
and when the sun shines too brilliantly the brave old trees 
rear for us a rare canopy in the forests. The little wizard 
stream, leaping and dancing over the rocks, to drop itself into 
the brook at the foot of the hill, and the long cool shadows 
lying on the grass beside the trees, each had a magic in them 
which was quite irresistible. So I went out, and sauntered 
dreamily ado^vn the meadow, with half-shut eyes and a deli- 
cious sense of pleasure stealing over me, at each pressure of 
my foot upon the yielding carpet. Crossing the -little log- 
bridge at the foot of the slope, I picked my way among the 
alders on the other side, close by the marge of the stream. 
Myriads of little pearl-white blossoms bent their "sbft lips to 
the wave •which bounded to meet them; and fside by side 
with them, the double-bladed iris sent up its sword-shaped 
leaves, as proudly as in its prime, though t'he bare stalks 
which grew from its centre were all stripped of their bios- 



92 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 



soms. The queen of the meadow stood up in its regal beauty, 
not far from the water's edge ; further back the spotted lily 
nodded gracefully on its curved stem, and the crimson tufts 
of the balm-flower nestled in clusters of green shrubbery ; 
while the narrow leaf of the willow turned out its silver lin- 
ing, and the aspen quivered all over, like a loving heart blest 
with its prayer, above. Beyond, tier on tier, rose galleries of 
green, with but a step between the uppermost and heaven, all 
radiant in the luxurious garniture of June. How glorious 
and grand, and full of life was everything — and how my 
nature expanded in the midst of it as it would embrace the 
whole universe. I know there are moments on this side the 
grave when the shackles of clay do really fall off, and our 
spirits grow large, as though they had looked into the bound- 
lessness of eternity, and we lift a wing with the angels. But 
we come back again, dazzled and bewildered; for we are 
prisoners in a very little cell, and too large a draught of 
heaven now would not be good for us. I dallied long about 
the brook and on the verge of the forest, seeing and dream- 
ing ; and then I wandered on, now listening to the joyous 
song-gushes of the crazy-hearted little Bob-o-link ; now laugh- 
ing at the antic red squirrel, as his tiny brick-colored banner 
whisked from fence to tree ; and now gathering handfuls of 
the pale sweet-scented wood-violets, which follow the first frail 
children of the spring. Then there were large banks of moss, 
of brown, and green, and gold, all richly wrought together, 
as by the fingers of bright lady-elves, and more elastic than 
the most gorgeous fabrics of the Persian looms, with now and 
then a little vine straggling over them, strung with crimson 
berries ; the sun breaking through the closely interlaced 
branches above in little gushes of light, which quivered as 
they fell, and vanished and came again, as coquettishly as the 
bright-tnr oated humming-bird, which frolicked gracefully with 
the pink bl'ossoms of the azalia, in the hollow beyond. These 
were interspersed with little patches of winter-green, tender 
and spicy, of which I of course secured a plentiful supply ; 
and clusters of; the snowy monotropa appeared at the roots of 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 93 

' trees, clear and polished and pearl-like ; and green ferns grew 
beside old logs, half wreathed over with ivy — and everything 
there, from the golden moss-cup to the giant tree, looking up 
in,to heaven, shared my thoughts and love. 

Then I went on, next stooping to pull from the dark loose 
soil the long slim roots of the wild sarsaparilla ; and close 
beside them I discovered the nest of a darling little ground 
bird, which flew away and came back again, fluttering abou 
most pleadingly : and so I left the graceful innocent, without 
even taking a peep at the four speckled eggs, which probably 
constituted its treasure. 

The sun was quite low when I drew near the Sachem's 
wood, an immense wilderness to the southeast of Alderbrook, 
better known by sportsmen than any one else. Some poker- 
ish story of the Indian days first gave rise to the name ; and 
so there was a superstition connected with it which kept 
timid people (children, at least) aloof. Moreover, old An 
toine committed his murder there ; and it was more than 
half suspected that some of Jake Gawsley's gold might bo 
hidden among the jagged rocks and deep gulleys of the 
Sachem's wood. However that might be, the mysterious pro- 
verb that the " Sachem's wood could bring no good," had been 
quite sufficient to prevent my young feet from tempting the 
spirits of evil on the other side of the stump fence which 
walled it in. But I felt some inclination now to take a peep 
into the banned forest, and so, scaling the fantastical barrier 
as I best might, I sprang to a bank as mossy and as bright 
with the sunshine as any we had on the other side. The 
air was fresh and pure, and there was a scent of wild-flowers 
on it which made me feel quite safe; for flowers ahvays 
betray the presence of angels. So I wandered on indolently 
as before, now plucking a leaf, now watching dreamily the 
shadows which were fast chasing away the sunlight, until I 
began to suspect it quite time to return home. It was nearly 
twilight, and I had not seen the sun go down. A few steps 
further only, and then 1 would go ; but there was a pretty 
silvery tinkle just ahead, which might lead to the lurkiug 



94 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

place of a troop of fairies. The sound proceeded from the 
self-same little stream which trips it over the rocks to the 
east of Strawberry-hill, and comes dancing and sparkling 
down to the brook at the foot. It was gurgling along quite 
gayly at the bottom of a chasm, so dark that, as I knelt on 
the crag above, and leaned over, it was some minutes before 
I could catch a glimpse of the silver-voiced musician. The 
ravine was exceedingly narrow, looking as though the 
Sachem (who was probably a giant) might have split it apart 
with an immense hatchet; but the feat was evidently per- 
formed a long time ago, for it was all mossed over, long 
wreaths of green flaunted from little clefts on either side, and 
the pretty blue-bell from the tip of its lithe stem nodded 
smilingly to its noisy neighbor among the pebbles. I was 
rising to go away, when a sound like the tread of some light 
animal m.ade me pause. It came again, and then followed 
a scrambling noise and a rustle like the bending of twigs 
laden with foliage ; and I looked carefully about me, for I 
might not be quite pleased with the company I should meet 
in the Sachem's wood. This gorge must be very nearly in a 
line with the haunted saw-mill, which is reported to be ten- 
anted by the wandering spirit of old Jake Gawsely, and who 
knows but the miser himself may now and then come out at 
dew-fall to look after his concealed treasures. My view was 
partially obstructed by a wild gooseberry bush, and when I 
raised my head above it I saw, not the troubled spirit of a 
dead old man, but a beautiful child, standing on the point of 
a rock, and looking cautiously about her as though fearful of 
being observed. It was little Molly White, and I was about 
calling to her; when, as though satisfied with her scrutiny 
she swung herself from the rock, clinging by her little fingers 
to the jagged points, poised for a moment in the. air, and then 
dropped on the platform below. Here she again looked 
about her, and I drew back my head ; for I had had time for 
a second thought, and I knew that no trifling thing could 
bring the child to the banned forest alone. Beside she car- 
ried on her arm a basket evidently well-laden, which impeded 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 95 

her progress very much, and a suspicion far from agreeable 
crept over me as I again leaned my head over the ledge. 
The child descended with the agility of a kitten : and when 
at last she reached the bottom, she looked earnestly up and 
down the ravine, starting now and then, stretching forward 
her ittle head, as though fearful that the moving shadows 
might deceive her. As soon as she became satisfied that she 
was not observed, she sent out a low clear sound like a bird- 
note, which was immediately answered by a suppressed 
whistle. She sprang forward and was met half-way by a 
man, who emerged from the shadow of the rock just bencalh 
i me. 

" Where on earth have you been staying, Moll ? " he ex- 
; claimed, half angrily. " I have fed on nothing but ground- 
[ nuts and beech leaves these two days, and — ha! I hope you 
have something palatable in your basket. Does your arm 
1 ache, chicky? This is a heavy load for such little hands to 
i carry. But where have you been ? I did n't know but they 
I had nabbed you for your good deeds, and meant to starve me 
f out. Bless me, Moll, how you tremble I " 

" Oh, I have been so frightened, Jemmy. Dick Holman 
I suspects all about it — " 
" Curse Dick Holman ! " 

" Some of the other men have told how I ran to you the 
night that the officers took them, and he thinks I knoAV 
wliere you are now. He said they would hang me. Jemmy, 
if I wouldn't tell — will they hang me?" 

The beautiful face was upturned, with such sweet anxious 
meekness, that the well-nigh hardened brother seemed 
touched, and for a moment he did not reply. 
" Will they hang me. Jemmy ?" 

" No, Molly, no ! they will never harm a hair of your 
head. But let me tell you, chick, you mustn't listen to one 
word from that devil incarnate — he will be hiring you to 
betray me yet." 

" Dick Holman ? Oh no ! he can't hire me. He took out 
a whole handful of dollars, but I would n't look at them, and 



9b LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

he said he would give me a new frock and a pretty bonne I, 
like the village girls, but I did n't answer him a word. It , 
was then he said — and he spoke dreadful, dreadful words, . 
Jemmy — that he would have me hanged. Do you think he 
can ? I am sure he will if he can. I was always afraid of 
him; he looks at me so out of the corner of his eye, and goes , 
creeping about as lightly as a cat, so that one never knows 
when he is coming." 

" Never fear, Moll, he can't hurt you," replied the brother, . 
still swallowing down the huge slices of meat like a starved l' 
hound. " I only wish I had him again in the place he was -! 
when I fished him up from the bottom of the horse-pond — 
he would beg one while for daylight before he should see it." 

" Oh, Jemmy — " 

" Hang me if he would n't ! That 's what a man gets by ,| 
being good-natured. Dick Holman always pocketed two- 
thirds of the money, and never run any danger." 

" Jemmy ! Jemmy ! " exclaimed the child, in a tone of 
sorrowful reproach, " You told me you didn't do it! You 
told me you never took any money, and now — " 

" And now I hav'n't told you anything different, little 
Miss sanctimony; so don't run away from me, and leave me 
to starve." 

" But you ought to tell me the truth. Jemmy — you know 
it would n't make me care the less for you — though — Oh! 
it is a dreadful thing to be a thief ! " 

"Well, you are not a thief, nor — nor I either, so save 
your sermons and — you might have brought me a little 
brandy, Moll." 

The child sat down on the mossed trunk of a fallen tree, 
and made no answer. 

" Why did n't you come yesterday ? " 

" Dick Holman watched me." 

" Blast him ! The curses o' Heaven light — " 

Truth does not require the oaths and imprecations of bad 
men to be written down, and if it did I could hardly give the 
words of poor Jem White ; for there in the solemn woods, 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 97 

amid the falling shadows, I will own that the hoarse voice of 
the miserable man inspired me with so much terror that I 
could scarcely hear him. But I saw the little girl rise slowly 
and sorrowfully from her seat. 

" Jemmy, I cannot stay here, for I know you are a bad, 
wicked man, and I am afraid of you." 

" Afraid, JMoll ! ha, ha, ha ! that 's a good one ! you 
afraid And you came over to the log-barn at midnight, 
when the officers were out, without flinching a hair. Afraid ? " 
" You told me then you did n't do it. Jemmy, and I 
thought you didn't. Oh, it is a dreadful thing to be a thief! 
Dreadful ! dreadful ! " 

" But Molly, chick, you would n't let them take me, and 
shut me up in a dark prison — State Prison — Jem' White in 
State's Prison ! think on 't, Moll ! " 

The child sank down on the rocks and sobbed as though 
her little heart would break ; while her brother worked more 
voraciously than ever at the contents of the basket. 

" I '11 tell 'ee what, Moll," he at last said, " if you could 
coax up father to take me home — can't you ? Nobody would 
' ever mistrust him." 

■ " No, Jemmy ; it was father who first made me believe 
: you had not spoken truth to me. He said, too, last night, 
that if he could find you he would give you up himself, in 
' the hope that it would do you good." 

" Good ! A sight of good it would do me ! Cuss it, 

! Moll—" 

! "Jemmy," exclaimed the child, starting to her feet, and 
jj standing before him with more dignity than her beautifil 
' bright face gave promise of, " Jemmy, I will not hear another 
bad word from you. What I have done for you may be 
wicked, but I could n't help it. Mother told me to love you, 
wlien her lips against my cheek were cold ; and I will bring 
you victuals and tell you if I hear you are in danger, but you 
shall not use those wicked words — I will not hear you." 

" Bless me, Moll ! I have said nothing to make you take 
on so, and if you like it, you may go and tell Dick Holman 



ya LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

where I am, and get your smart frock and Sunday bonnet, to 
say your Scripture lessons in. I dare say they will tell you 
it 's a fine thing to send your brother to State Prison — a 
mighty fine thing, Moll, and you will be a little wonder 
among 'em." 

" You shan't swear, at any rate. Jemmy ; for the great God, \ 
who sees everything, will be angry with you, and he will let ' 
them find where you are if you are so wicked. You 
know — " 

" I know you are a good little child, Moll — too good for 
that matter — so cease your blubbering, chicky, and tell me 
how niatters are going in the village, and whether Jesse I 
Swift or Ned Sloman have confessed." ' 

The child sat down and gave a circumstantial account of>i! 
all that had occurred during the few past days, and then' 
added, " They say that you will be taken before a week's 
end, Jemmy, for they all seem sure that you hav'n't got. 
away." • ' 

"Aha ! they don't know what a nice little sister I have for ' 
a jailer. But you must go now, Moll, for father will be '• 
niiysing you, and then we shall have a pretty how-de-do. 
Scramble back, chickey-pet, and mind that you keep a sharp ' 
look-out on Dick Holman. This is a jewel of a place, but 
he might track you to it when you hadn't a thought of him. 
Come to-morrow, if you can, for the bread and meat will' 
scarce serve me for breakfast, let alone the lunch that I must 
lake, since I have nothing else to do, before sleeping. You 
calculated for your own little stomach when you put it up for 
me." 

" I brought all we had, Jemmy, and I went without my 
own dinner and supper to make it more." 

"Well, you are a nice child, Moll, and I won't do any- 
thing to bother you. Come to-morrow, and I wont worry 
your pretty ears with a word of swearing. You are a darl- 
ing little jailer, and — there — good-night, Molly." 

He pressed his lips to the bright cheek of the little girl, aoii 
held her for a moment in his arms, then set her on a platformi 



LITTLJi MOLLY WHITE. 99 

just by his head, and watched her difficult ascent till she 
again stood on the verge of the ravine. 

" Safe ! " shouted little Molly White, almost gleefully, as she 
leaned for a moment over the chasm. She was answered by 
a whistle, and the pretty child clapped her hands, as though 
iShe now felt at liberty to be happy once more, and bounded 
away. She went only a few steps, however, and then 
returned, and kneeling once more on the twisted roots of a 
tall elm tree that grew upon the verge of the precipice, peered 
lanxiously down the gorge. My eyes involuntarily turned in 
;the same direction. It seemed to me at first as though the 
shadows were strangely busy ; then I saw them making reg- 
ular strides up the ravine, and a faint sickly feeling crept 
lOver me, so that I drew back my head, and closed my eyes. 
jWhen I looked again I saw distinctly the figures of three 
men, one a little in advance of the others, making their way 
kip the dark gully of the Sachem's woods. Would they pass 
iby the hiding-place of Jem While, or had his hour come at 
last, and must that anxious little watcher at the foot of the 
elm-tree, look helplessly on a scene that would wring her 
young heart with agony. Bright Molly seemed suddenly to 
have made a discovery ; for she uttered a piercing shriek, 
which rang through the gray forest with startling wiklness, 
and catching by the bough which had before assisted her 
descent, she attempted again to swing herself to the first 
rocky platform. But, in her fright, the little hand missed its 
grasp ; the spring was made, and the bright-eyed child was 
precipitated to the bottom of the gorge. Jemmy White had 
heard the warning shriek, and rushed out in time to see the 
fall of his sister and catch a glimpse of the traitor, Holman 
leading on the officers of justice, but a few rods from his lair. 
;What would he do? He was probably familiar Avith every 
,secret lurking-place in that immense wilderness, and night 
jwas coming on, so that it might be no difficult thing for him 
to make hlo '^scape. At least his long limbs and hardy 
frame warranted him the victory in a race, for Dick Holman 
(Was a short, clumsily built man, and his companions would 



100 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

soon weary of clambering over the rocks. Jemmy White's 
reflections seemed of the precise nature of mine ; for, after 
throwing one glance over his shoulder and another up the 
ravine, he bounded forward, and sprang across the body of 
his sister, touching, as he went, her little quivering arm with 
his foot. Suddenly the man's bold face was blanched, he 
seemed to waver, and then casting another hurried glance 
behind him, he made an effort to go on, but his limbs refused 
their office ; a heavy groan, replete with agony, came up 
from the depths of the gorge ; and Jemmy White paused, 
cowering over the inanimate child as though the two had 
been alone in the forest. The men came up and laid their 
hands on his shoulders, but he did not look at them, nor in 
any way heed their presence ; he only chafed the hands of 
the little girl, and kissed her forehead, and entreated her to 
open her eyes, for her own brother Jem was there, and it 
would break his heart if she should not speak to him. The 
two officers, with the delicacy which the heart teaches to the 
rudest of men, stood back ; but Dick Holman still continued 
his grasp upon the shoulder of the criminal, as though to 
assure his companions that he understood this mumniery 
much better than they did. The scene lasted — how long I 
cannot say — it seemed to me ages. Finally one of the offi- 
cers came forward with a coil of rope in his hand, and in- 
timated his intention to bind the prisoner. Jemmy White 
rose from his crouching posture to his knees, and looked up 
as though vainly endeavoring to comprehend the movements 
of the men ; then he lifted the precious burden at his feet to 
hir, bosom, and clasped his arms about her closely as though 
afraid she might be forced from him. 

" I will go with you," he said, meekly ; with a dead heart- 
ache weighing on every word, as it dropped painfully and 
slowly from his lips. " I will go with you ; but don't 
bind me. I won't get away; I won't try. It don't matter 
what becomes of me, now I have killed little Molly. Stand 
off, Dick Holman ! take your hand from my shoulder, and 
stand away ! You made w-e do it ! I should have been a 



LlfTLE MOLLY WHITE. 101 

decent man, if you had kepi away from me, and poor Molly 
— ay stand off! it may not be safe for you to come too near ! " 

" We had better bind him," said one of the men, glancing 
at his companion for approbation. 

" No, no; leave me my arms, for Molly's sake, and walk 
close beside me, if you are afraid. I won't try to run away. 
It's of no use now — no use — no use!" 

Jemmy White's lips moved mechanically, still repeating 
the last words ; and the officer crammed the coil of rope into 
h.3 pocket again, and moved on beside the sobered prisoner 
notwithstanding the cautionary gestures and meaning glances 
of Dick Holman. 

That night, the arrest of Jem White and the dreadful ac- 
cident which had befallen his little sister, were the subjects 
of conversation at every fireside; and much softening of heart 
was there toward the wretched prisoner, when it was known 
that he owed his arrest to the humanity which was only 
stifled, not dead, within him. 

When poor little Molly White opened her bright eyes 
again, she was in the ceil of a prison ; ibr it would have been 
death to the agonized brother to have her taken from him, 
and even honest Jacky, notwithstanding his stern, unwaver- 
ing integrity, and his abhorrence of the slightest deviation 
from it, had plead earnestly for this indulgence. Besides, 
Molly White must be taken care of somewhere at the expense 
of the county, and there was no poor-house ; so Jem's prayer 
was granted. 

When she awoke to consciousness, she looked eanieslly 
into the face of her brother, who was leaning over her, bath- 
ing her temples as tenderly as a mother could have done ; 
and then glanced upon the gloomy walls and scanty furniture 
of her sick chamber. 

"Where are we? Did tney find you, Jemmy?" she 
inquired — " Dick Holman and those other men?" 

The tears rained over the bronzed cheeks of the prisoner 
in torrents ; and the child wiped them away with her little 
9* 



102 LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 

dimpled hands, whispering softly, " I am sorry I called you 
a bad man, Jemmy," 

"Bad, Molly! Oh, I am very, very bad!" sobbed the 
repentant criminal. 

" But you are sorry, Jemmy," and the little round arms 
n^ere folded over the neck which they had often clasped most 
lovingly before ; but never with such touching tenderness. 
' And so the angels love you dearly, for the good Bible says 
Aat they are gladder for one man who is sorry for being 
wicked, than for a great many men that never do wrong. 
The angels love you, Jemmy ; and mother is an angel now." 

" She used to love me, and beg me not to get into bad 
ways ; but I almost broke her heart, sometimes, Molly ! " 

" Well, she loves you yet ; and you are very sorry for 
what you have done; and so — we shall be happy, oh, so 
happy ! " 

The prisoner glanced about his cell, and his brow was 
contracted with pain. 

" I know where we are, Jemmy, for I have looked in here 
before ; and it is better, a great deal better, than hiding in the 
woods. I am glad they let me be with you ; I am not afraid 
here, for you are good now, and just as sorry for being wick- 
ed as ever you can be. We will live here always, Jemmy, 
if they will let us ; and then we shall always- be good. Don't 
cry, Jemmy. I wish you would fix my head — a little nearer 
your cheek — there, so ; — now kiss me and I shall go to 
sleep." 

How different that sleep from the one I had admired a few 
days earlier ! But the child was far happier now. 

Perhaps the strong interest excited by the accident to little 
Molly might have operated in Jem White's favor quite as 
much as his own simple, unobtrusive penitence ; but popular 
sympathy followed him to his cell, and remained by his side 
during the trial. So true and heartfelt was this sympathy, 
that there was a general elongation of countenance when he 
was condemned, and a universal, and, for a moment, uncon- 
trollable burst of applause when he was recommended to 



LITTLE MOLLY WHITE. 103 

m?rcy. As some palliating circumstances came to light 

during the trial, it was not difficult to cbtain a pardon for 

Jem White ; and I am sure no one at Alderbrook regrets the 

exercise of clemency in his behalf. To be sure, his trial has 

been of only six months' duration ; but he is so gentle and 

kind, and withal so sober, and industrious, and contented, 

that everybody places entire confidence in his" reformation. 

Bold, bad Jem White has become strangely like his father ; 

and the good old man goes about, calling on everybody (for 

honest Jacky knows that he has a friend in everybody at 

Alderbrook) to rejoice with him, for he is more blest than 

: any other mortal ; Avhile his simple heart swells more than 

ever with gratitude to God and love to man. As for darling 

little Molly, she is one of those guileless creatures often 

• doomed — nay, not doomed — so blessed, I should have said, 

i as to live for the good of others. Her bright face has grown 

I thin and pale with suffering, but there is a sweeter smile on 

ij it than ever ; and when Jemmy carries her in his arms, as he 

I does every Sabbath, to the village church, she tells him how 

■ glad she is for the accident which has crippled her, because 

it has given her such a dear resting-place. Little Molly will 

probably never be straight again — perhaps she never will 

walk — but she smiles at the prospect, and talks cheerfully 

of the wings which will be given her in heaven. 

Dick Holman, alarmed by some rather hostile demonstra- 

I tions on the part of Felix Graw and a few other determined 

' spirits of the neighborhood, disappeared from among us on 

the day he was set at liberty, and has never since honored 

; Alderbrook with his prese ice. 



104 



MY OLD PLAYMATE 



1 



Charley Hill was an old playmate of mine — a saucy, 
good-natured, mischief-doing, flower-loving, warm-hearted, , 
gentle, brave little playmate — and many a tale might the 
green-mossed stones lying among the alder-roots on the bor- 
der of the lazy brook, and the tall grass that waves on the 
hillside, tell of our young gambols. Oh! those rare, bright 
days — the days of my childhood ! How I wish that I could. 
make a compromise with the old fellow of the hour-glass, 
and save a handful of his sand from the end of my term, tot; 
glitter in the sunshine of the beginning — for myself do I; 
most sincerely wish it; but more, much more, for thee, poor' 
Charley Hill ! Some people are born with a shadow on thei 
brow, a shadow which refuses to be removed, though the 
wheel of life should roll forever in prosperity ; yet I liave 
known ;he sad gift to be accompanied by a spirit which mel-i, 
lowed and softened it, till the apparent curse proved a blessing, i , 
But my old playmate was not one of these. No cloud was; ; 
on his face or his fortunes. The light centred in his gayi j 
heart shone from parted lip and beaming eye, and was scat-, 
tered without stint on all who came near him. A frank, , ; 
jovial boy Avas Charley Hill, in those play-days; with a ;. 
ready hand, a ready smile, and a ready wit ; to say nothing 
of the charmingest of all charming hand-sleds, and a very 
discriminating little fowling-piece, which he assured rne 
never shot anything but crows. No boy at Alderbrook hadi, ,j 
so handsome a face as Charley — that everybody said; andii » 
no boy had so handsome a cap, (that bright purple velvet,.' ij 
with the two silken tassels dangling so gracefully from thei p 
apex,) nor so white a collar, nor such a "cunning" little 
jacket — though that everybody did not say. Little girls are 
much better initiated in such mysteries than older people. \ 



I MY OLD PLAYMATE. 105 

i will not assert that my old playmate, Charley, was a 
erfectly faultless lad ; for who hut his own naughty self was 
16 occasion of my travelling about two mortal hours, my 
ands tied fast to the schoolmistress' girdle, just because he 
ared me down to the brookside to angle for trout with a 
roDked pm, when stupid people thought I should have been 
loring over Webster's " elementary ? " And who but that 
ricked little scapegrace of a Charley, with his winsome ways 
nd generous little heart, led me to spoil my new white cam- 
'ric apron as I did the first time I wore it ? Who but Char- 
y could have done it ? I will tell the story to all who 
Bmember well when th^ were children ; but those whose 
aemories cannot look back through the crust upon the heart, 
rill do well to turn away to something wiser. We had a 
rand tea-party at my baby-house under the old black cherry 
•ee, and our dolls must have been surfeited with the luxuries 
pread before them. There was one thing in our feast, on 
hich we prided ourselves not a little — a dish of pretty crim- 
on balls, made of the wool that a dozen little fingers had 
usied themselves in picking from Debby Jones' red petti- 
oat, nicely imbedded in a snowy pile of soap suds — an 
xcellent substitute for strawberries and cream. Just before 
le party broke up, who should make his appearance but 
Jharley Hill; but when called upon to admire our ingenuity, 
UT climax of witty inventions, he manifested a very boy-like 
ndifference, and said nothing but " pooh ! " Charley might 
iave argued tlie point a week, while we in defending it miglil 
^ave become so earnest as to eat our mock strawberries ; but 
hat contemptuous "jsooA.' " was too much. While the little 
^'•rls, with disconcerted faces, were turning elsewhere for 
liversion, Charley took me aside confidentially. There were 
Itravvberries a plenty just over the brook ; a thick spot — and 
Jh, so thick ! and Charley's eyes grew big and o.a^k with the 
'ecoUection. 

If Fanny would just run over with him — 
I " But my mother, and my new apron ! " 

ft would take only a minute, and I could put my apron out 
»f the way — and oh, such a thick spot! 



106 THE GREAT MAKCH HOLYDAY. 

There was a wedding at the Maple Bush that evening — a 
quiet, cozy, family affair; and the pretty belle of the dislrid, 
though quite as pretty and quite as mischievously attractive, 
was a belle no longer. Bright, witching Dolly Foster ! what 
a dear little neighborhood blessing she had always been, wiih 
her sunny face and sunny heart and open hand ! And what 
a charming little bride of a Madam Linkum she made ! How 
everybody loved her ! How the old ladies praised her docility 
and teachableness ! and how the young ladies doted on 
her as a model of taste and socialness ! Oh, Dolly Foster 
was the flower of the Maple Bush; but bewitching Mrs. 
Linkum was its gem — its lamp — its star. 



107 



NOT A POET. 

I AM a little maiden, 

Who fain would touch the Ijrre 
But my poor fingers ever 

Bring discord from the wire. 
'T is strange I 'm not a poet ; 

There 's music in my heart ; 
Some mystery must linger 

About this magic art. 

I 'm told that joyous spirits, 

Untouched by grief or care. 
In mystery so holy 

Are all too light to share. 
My heart is, very gladsome ; 

But there 's a corner deep, 
Where many a shadow nestles, 

And future sorrows sleep. 

I hope they '11 not awaken 

As yet for many a year ; 
There 's not on earth a jewel. 

That 's worth one grief-born tear. 
Long may the harp be silent. 

If Sorrow's touch alone, 
Upon the chords descending, 

Has porwer to wake its tone. 

I 'd never be a poet. 

My bounding heart to hush 
And lay down at the altar 

For Sorrow's foot to crush. 



108 NOT A rOET. 

Ah, no ! I '11 gather sunshine 
For coming evening's hours ; 

And while the spring-time lingers, 
I '11 gamer up its flowers, 

I fain would learn the music 

Of those who dwell in heaven 
For woe-tuned harp was never 

To seraph fingers given. 
But I will strive no longer 

To waste my heart-felt mirth ; 
I will mind me that the gifted 

Are the stricken ones of earth. 



109 



TWO NIGHTS IN THE "NIEUW 
NEDERLANDTS." 

It was on the night of the 25th of February, 1643, that a 
middle-aged man, with an honest, frank, sun-browned face 
and a powerful frame, sat and warmed himself by the kitchen 
fire in the Governor's house at Fort Amsterdam. He was 
singularly uneasy ; every now and then clenching his fist and 
moving his nervous arm as in angry gesticulation ; while his 
fine eye turned from one object to another with a kind of 
eager dread, and his naturally clear, open countenance was 
drawn into a scowl compounded of various strong emotions. 
He was alone, and bore himself much as though belonging to 
the household ; for he certainly could not have been greatly 
inferior to its master in point of dignity. All within doors 
was perfectly silent — painfully so, it seemed to the stern 
v/atcher — and within, the heavy, monotonous tread of a sen- 
tinel, at a little distance, gave the only evidence that the pulse 
of the young city had not ceased its breathings. At last the 
man drevv from his pocket a massive " Nuremburg egg" and 
held it up to the light. 

" Twelve o'clock — five — almost ten minutes past ! Thank 
God, if their hellish plan has miscarried ! " 

A long, loud, terrible shriek, as of a multitude of voices 
combining their agony, came up from the distance even as 
he spoke ; and, dropping the watch upon the stone hearth, the 
listener sprang with- an exclamation of horror to his feet. 

" God forgive me, if I curse my race and nation ! It is a 
deed worthy of the devil — and they call themselves men and 
Christians ! " 

He strode up and down the long kitchen, his brows knit 
and his hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering as he went, 

VOL. u. 10 



no 



MV OLD PLAYMATJi. 



" When was Ada Palmer here last?" and " Has little Susy 
May grown any ? " and " Oh ! has Charley Hill got home ? " 

To the last my mother gave a quiet yes. And was he as 
handsome as ever, and as agreeable, and as good ? j 

She half shook her head, and sighed ominously. J 

" Is Charley sick ? " | 

■ " No, quite well." ] 

" And hasn't he come home to stay?" 

" Probably." 

" What is the matter then ? " 

" Look ! yonder is Ada Palmer just coming down thetj 
slope;" and away I flew to meet her. ';j 

We kept open doors that evening, and everybody seemedi|i 
to know it — everybody but Charley Hill. He did not come ; ; 
and I wenc to sleep wondering what change had come over 
my old piay-mate. The next day I met him accidentally in'j 
the street ; and I noteil a pleased sparkle in his eye, and a ji 
flush on his cheek ; but he extended his hand half hesitat- i 
ingly, and there was a painful confusion in his manner whichi 
puzzled me. Why should the frank, noble-hearted Charleyl 
Hill blush and cast down his eyes, as though detected in a 
crime, at sight of an old friend ? The next evening, I was i 
invited to a social gathering at Deacon Palmer's. Charley '.j 
Hill was not there, and I inquired the wherefore. J 

" Is it possible, Fanny ! don't you know ? " ^ 

" Know what ? " 

" Why, nobody invites Charley now." 

"Why?" 

Ada shook her head, and compressed her lips with an eX"< 
pression of intense severity, i 

"Why, Ada?" ' 

" For the best of reasons, poor miserable fellow that he is ! 
He is not fit to associate with respectable people." 

" Tell me — has Charley done anything ! what is the 
matter ? " 

" Matter enough to break his poor father's heart, and maice 



MY OLD PLAYMATE. Ill 

all the rest of the family miserable. He is shockingly dissi- 
pated." 

It was the bursting of a thunderbolt. Poor Charley Hill ! 

That night I collected together, in one dream, all the fright- 
ful stories I had ever heard of vice, and degradation, and 
misery ; and strewed them along narrow, filthy streets, where 
Charley Hill walked, as though quite at home. At last there 
was a blow given, a shriek, a stream of blood, a dead, heavy 
corse ; and, all trembling with horror, I awoke. How thank- 
ful was I that my old playmate was not a murderer ; and 
how I lay and arranged plan after plan for his redemption, 
plan after plan which shrivelled to a cobweb as soon as 
woven ! 

When morning came, I made inquiries and learned more 
of Charley Hill. His singular powers of fascination had led 
liim into temptation to which the less gifted are seldom ex- 
posed. He was full of wit and vivacity ; his natural gaiety and 
good humor were unbounded ; and he was self-confident and 
unsuspecting. It was a long time before Charley Hill became 
at all aware that he was wasting himself; and then he qui- 
eted his conscience with the thought, " It is necessary now ; 
when once I am home again all will be well." So he went 
on till he seemed to have lost the power of saving himself; 
and just at this critical time, perhaps not more than a fort- 
night too late, Judge first began to take note of tlie 

derelictions of his young charge. In the mean time a few 
reports had reached Alderbrook, and alarmed Squire Hi!!. 
He proceeded to the metropolis, received the whole weight of 
his friend's newly acquired knowledge, (much of it of course 
exaggerated,) before seeing his son, showered upon the culprit 
a torrent of expostulations, which the goadings of disappoint- 
ment made very angry ones ; and finally concluded to remove 
him at once from his companions to the quiet of Alderbrook. 
The last was the only wise thing done. Here Charley Hill 
might have been saved if but his own plan for " doing people 
good " had been carried -out. His father was very angry, and 
used much severity ; his mother and sister received him witli 



112 MY OLD PLAYMATE. 

tears and chidings. The last would have won his heart, but 
the regret it occasioned was accompanied by a strong st > 
of degradation, which made him anxious to escape their pr - 
ence. Their treatment of him was full of tenderness, but it 
was a kind of tenderness which showered humiliation on its 
object, and should not have been continued more than one day. 
If but one person had shown a cheerful confidence in him he 
might have been encouraged and strengthened. But his old 
friends stood aloof. True, they sometimes greeted him kindly , 
but there was something e^en in that very kindness which 
made him feel their knowledge of the taint that was on him. 
Is it strange, that, without sympathy, without companionship 
with the good, his pride daily wounded, and his self-respect 
daily diminishing, Charley Hill should become reckless of con- 
sequences, and indulge his socialness at the expense of higlier 
qualities ? Certainly my old playmate was made no better 
by being removed to Alderbrook. The vicious are every- 
where, and Charley in his loneliness turned to them. Tliis 
was the climax of his evil doing. He had been driven to it, 
true, but he should not have yielded to the force which ev. n 
the good had turned against him. If he had stood firm for a 
couple of years, not merely unsupported, but against the ovcr- 
poAvering weight of neglect which was thrown into the balance 
on the side of wrong — if he had borne well the severest of 
all severe trials for a sensitive nature, his first failure might 
have been forgiven and he restored to his former position 
among us. There are, doubtless, men who might have done 
it; but alas, how few! Charley Hill struggled a little ; but. 
when he reached up his hand from the gulf into which lie 
was falling, there was no one to take it. There were enougli 
that thought themselves ready to help him ; but they forgot 
that he was a brother, and poor Charley remembered the past 
and turned from them. 

" It is a somewhat questionable experiment ; and your plan 
you will find very difficult of execution." So spake a careful 
mother, evincing a sensitive regard for the welfare of her " 
own child ; the only thing that could blind an eye usually so • 



MV OLD PLAYMATE. 113 

discriminating, or momentarily steel a heart so full of charity. 
" You are but a young girl, my Fanny." 

" I will talk only with young girls, then ; but Charley and 
I were old friends, and he has a right to expect kindness of 
me." 

" Not a right, my child ; he has forfeited that." 

I had some confused, indistinct notions of the peculiar 
rights of the erring, the consideration and attention which we 
Dwe each other on a sea so full of breakers, but I did not 
jrenture on advancing them, lest I should injure the cause of 
Charley Hill by opinions heterodox. 

Days went by, and my old playmate had become a very 
requent visiter at Underbill. He was received at Deacon 
Palmer's, also, and at several other houses in the village ; 
md the effect was soon visible in his altered appearance. 
But all this was not done without opposition ; and there were 
)eopIe in the village — good people — that had done much to 
eform the vicious, arid were ready to do more — who bitterly 
lenounced the course we were pursuing. It was not in 
iccordance with their own plan. Charley Hill should have 
leen obliged to give a pledge of reformation, and stand a 
rial ; it was too much to receive him on trust. The most 
ritical position which a man can occupy in this world, the 
post dangerous, is when he stands balancing on the barrier 
etween vice and virtue. Vice wooes, and virtue frowns. 
?he bad beckon, and smile, and promise ; while the good, 
rho should have all the smiles and be able to present all the 
ttractions that cluster so profusely around a life of purity, 
peak their warnings with severity, stand aloof, as though 
Ifraid of contamination, and scarce encourage a return. Not 
[lat men are so unforgiving to the erring. The sympathj'- 
p the self-degraded which has sprung up everywhere, proves 
lat they are not. But it is a fashion of the day to encourage 
rtremes. The lady who will take a drunkard from the gut- 
sr, and clothe and feed him, will severely censure her sister 
bilanthropist for using a more delicate and less apparent 
ifluence to keep the thoughtles'i young wine-drinker from 
10* 



114 MY OLD PLAYMATE. 

falling into it. It matters but little whether smiles or tears 
are employed, if the good be accomplished. We tried smiles 
with Charley Hill. We scattered roses in his path, and won 
him many a step back, and tried to keep him there, but — 

As I have before intimated, many good people felt outraged 
that Charley Hill should be treated as though he had never 
erred, and be received in some families at Alderbrook as for- 
merly. He should be punished ; he deserved a lesson ; he 
ought to be taught that he could not sin without paying the 
penalty. There was plausibility in much that they said, else, 
alas ! their reasonings would have had less weight with us. 
They contended that if society really had the power of re- 
forming him, it was not such society. They intimated even 
that parents were exposing their children to contamination 
by this course. We were too young, they said, to do good 
to our playmate. Too young ! Could those who were older 
understand the case so well as we ; we who held the key to ' 
Charley Hill's nature, and were almost as familiar with every 
nook and cranny within his heart as our own ? Poor Char- - 
ley! -vie could have saved him; but "public opinion "was 
against us, and — we failed. 

Door after door was shut against Charley Hill ; door after 
door, till, alone again in the world, he turned from the happy 
firesides which had for a while stayed him in his course, and 
plunged headlong into the yawning vortex of dissipation. 
Before, he had stepped cautiously and hesitatingly ; he had I 
paused and looked behind him. and dallied with the flowers r, 
which grew on the brink of the precipice. But now he gave J 
one desperate leap, and was gone forever. As Charley Hill's 
was not a gradual wandering away from the path of right, i 
but a sudden mad plunge, so was his course short and his 
end tragic. But we will leave him to his rest on the spot , 
where he once sat, beneath the elm tree close in the corner '| 
of the churchyard, to watch the burial of old Jake Gawsely. i 
He dropped a tear there ; a tear of pity for the friendless old; 
man, who was hustled into his grave by the hands of those- 
he had injured. Perhaps' some watchful angel may have 



MY OLD PLAYMATE. 115 

caught that tear, and borne it up before him to the throne of 
the Eternal ; and the gentle tribute may ere this have been 
laid back on his own earth-defiled spirit, to freshen and to 
purify it. A dark, dark fate was thine, poor Charley ! woven 
by thine own fingers, true, but lacking the white and golden 
threads which those who once loved thee might have added ; 
a dark, dark fate, which my pen refuses to record or my 
thoughts to dwell upon. Many virtues were thine, my old 
playmate ; there was much in thee to love, much to pity, 
much to censure ; God forgive thee ! God forgive the mis- 
taken philanthropists of Alderbrook ! 



116 



OUR MAY. 

" Our May," as everybody called May Loomis, was the ) 
merriest, blithesomest, busiest little creature that you ever saw ' 
— a perfect honey-gatherer without the sting — an April smile, , 
with a cousin's face for the contrasting cloud. It seemed I 
impossible to bring a shade of seriousness over that joyous > 
face ; for although I have seen tears starting from her eyes. . 
they were always checked by a smile, or if suffered to fall 1 
upon her face, they were lost in a profusion of roguish dim- • 
pies. 

Our May had a cousin, the cloud above mentioned, who 
rejoiced in the same appellation ; but although everybody 
said that Miss May Loomis was a very excellent young lady, 
no one ever thought of placing the possessive before her name. 
Indeed, I do not think Miss May would have liked such a 
partnership concern, for she had a high opinion of her own 
dignity, and she thought it must be very painful to any 
woYnan of delicacy to be hailed by all she met as though 
under their especial protection. The good-natured laugh of 
the old farmers shocked her nerves, and the cordial gi-asp of 
their horny hands was quite too much for lady-endurance. 
Miss May was very often annoyed, when walking with her ■ 
cousin, by the exclamation, " There goes our May!" from: 
the lips of some poor washerwoman, or errand-boy; and then.. 
to see them fly across the street, as though on terms of the ' 
greatest intimacy ! Why, it was preposterous. So presum 
ing ! But Miss May was still more annoyed by the exces- • 
sive vulgarity of her thoughtless little cousin, who wouW ' 
often stop in the street to inquire after the health and pros- 
perity of the offenders, and send some little message to thf> ' 
children at home. On such occasions the Cloud usually 
drew herself up to her utmost height, and to avoid the dis- 



1 OUR MAY. 117 

grace of such improper conduct, walked home alone, in the 
most dignified manner. But then Miss May's walk was 
always dignified, if walking by rule and compass constitutes 
dignity ; and she was never known to do an iviproper thing 
m her life. She always carried her hands in one particular 
position, except when, for the sake of variety, she changed 
(hem to one other particular position ; and her pocket-hand- 
Kerchief, which she held between the thumb and finger of 
die left hand, was allowed to spread itself over the three 
.[remaining fingers in a very becoming manner. Her neck 
i| ribbon was always crossed upon her bosom, the two ends of 
^precisely the same length; and her collar never had in it a 
wrinkle. Tliore were two or three plaits in the waist of her 
dress, because somebody, that she considered undisputable 
authority, had -^aid that plaits were graceful ; but she care- 
fully eschewed all extravagance, in the quantity, if not the 
quality, of the cloth she honored by wearing. Her hair 
(this was the climax of the young lady's nicety) was so care- 
fully brushed and pomatumed, that it seemed one glossy con- 
\cx surface, surmounted by a braid of — no one could have 
iiuiqined what, but for the pale blue ribband that relieved 
lie brown, and gave the curious examiner the idea that it 
niuht be of the same material as the head covering. 

]*>lisb May's nicety extended to everything about her. 
^er house-plan'^ were prim and perpendicular, trimmed of 
n'cry redundant loaf; and she was often heard to lament an 
)peiiing blossom, br.causs it would produce irregularity, by 
lirowing the balance of ornament on one side of the plant. 
riie Cloud was fond of exercising her skill in trimming trees 
n the shape of cones and other figures, while her cousin fos- 
ered luxuriance in their growth, and would rather hang on 
(hem a wilder wreath, or twist a limb awry, than to see the 
•rnaments of her uncle's garden standing out stark and stifF, 
ike the spokes of a wagon wheel. Yet the cousins never 
;lashed ; for the regularity of Miss May extended to her dis- 

fiition and heart ; and, having her own excellent rule of 
titude, she would as soon have been caught laughing 



118 OUR MAY. 

aloud, or romping in the court yard, or wearing a rumpled i 
dress, as swerving from it in the least degree. On the othei I 
hand, our May was too careless and too light-hearted to bt 
annoyed by her nice cousin's trifling peculiarities ; and she 
never opposed her tastes, nor interrupted her in anything 
except a lecture on propriety. Miss May never spoke but ir 
che gentlest voice, and the most unexceptionable words ; bui 
then she often felt it to be her duty to admonish her wild 
cousin of the folly of her doings, which admonitions oui 
active little Hebe found peculiarly irksome. She, however 
soon invented a way of warding off these avalanches of gooc 
advice, quite worthy of her wit. When Miss May would 
enter the parlor with a grave look of reproof, and commence 
v.'ith the ominous words, " My dear cousin, I feel it my dut} 
to expostulate — " the offender would interrupt her. 

" Oh, wait a minute. May, deary, I have something to 'j! 

you. Mr. Melroy " 

This sentence was sometimes finished irt one way, anc 
sometimes in another ; but Mr. Melroy was the magic word 
and after making her fair monitress blush crimson, the littk 
tormenter Avould glide out of the room and express her self- 
gratulalion by a laugh as long and loud as it was musical. 

Mr. Melroy was our village clergyman ; a young bach(?loi 
of twenty-eight, and a general favorite with all classes of 
men. He was friendly and courteous with all, for he loolcct 
upon the whole human family as his kindred; and his her.r 
never refused to the meanest beggar, the appellation of 
brother. His voice was full and melodious, but some whir 
solemn; his countenance exhibited a dash of melancholy 
though so modified by Christian benevolence as to be pecu- 
liarly interesting ; and his manner was correct and gentle- 
manly. The two cousins were members of Mr. Melroy'si 
church ; and their uncle, 'Squire Loomis, was his personal 
friend ; so it was not at all to be wondered at that he became 
their frequent visiter. Neither is it a matter of wonder that 
our May, light-hearted, smiling, blithesome May, contrasted 
as she was with her grave companion, should almost escape 



OUR MAY. 119 

the young pastor's notice. Our May saw that Mr Melroy's 
Attention was all directed to the Cloud ; but she was not sorry, 
for it gave her an opportunity to watch his fine eyes, as they 
lighted up with the enthusiasm of his subject, and to catch 
ihe variety of expression which genius can throw upon the 
most serious face. Our May liked merriment, but she liked 
Mr. Melroy better ; and she never ventured to breathe a word 
mtil she was sure he had quite finished. Then she would 
noake some remark, so comical, that Mr. Melroy would be 
obliged to waste a smile upon her in spite of himself; and 
Miss May would quite forget the half hour's profitable con- 
versation in planning a reproof. 

Sometimes Mr. Melroy would walk with the young ladies, 
)r rather, with the Cloud, for our May was constantly bound- 
ng from the path to pluck a flower or chase a butterfly. And 
ret she somehow never lost any part of the young clergyman's 
ffofitable conversation, for when they were alone she would 
.ease her sedate cousin by distorting his beautiful sentiments 
md sadly misapplying his comparisons ; and then she would 
Ileal away to poor blind Becky and glad her pious heart by a 
'epetition of his pure teachings. Our May was certainly not 
without faults; but her young heart was a living, feeling, 
icting thing ; and she had happily given it all, even its vola- 
ility, to the guidance of a safe Hand. 

Both of the cousins had a class in the village Sabbath 
school, and Miss May was the secretary of two or three be- 
levolent societies, of which our May was only a quiet, unob- 
rusive member. Some people wondered that the relative, 
md constant companion of such a pattern-lady as Miss May 
Lioomis, should choose such a questionable way of exhibiting 
let charity, as to visit the poor in person, and administer to 
heir wants, even when it called her away from the meetings 
if the society ; but others fearlessly advocated their favorite's 
;ause; while the sober-faced young clergyman said nothing. 
before old Mr. Thompson left. Miss May used to tell the 

Flinquent that she knew Mr. Thompson disapproved of such 



120 OUR MAY. 

was a signal which our May failed not to answer with au , . 
exceeding gay volley. The truth was, everybody said lhat!|f: 
Mr. Melroy did not call so often at 'Squire Loomis' for noth- '"' 
ing and as Miss May was very far from being nothing, she 
wai very naturally concluded to be the something that so 
atfacted. When anybody asked home questions about this 
matter, our May laughed, and looked very knowing, while . 
her cousin blushed, and looked very dignified. Thus matters'ij* 
went on for a long time, and thus they might have gone on, '■ 
in spite of several old ladies, who endeavored to introduce 
variety by prophesying it, but for an occurrence in which our 
May most sadly overstepped the bounds of propriety. 

It was on a fine afternoon, in the beginning of August, that . 
the young pastor was seen leading the fair cousins beyond the 
little clump of houses which we dignified by the title of vil- 
lage. Miss May's step was as precise as ever ; but our bright;!;!; 
lady of the possessive pronoun, walked more as though shei|»i; 
thought she could guide herself, and was seeking an oppor-| ' 
tunity to drop the gentleman's arm. Their walk was as! I; 
usual, delightful to all ; for Miss May was treated with theil| 
most scrupulous attention — Mr. Melroy found the air refresh-j 
ing and the scenery beautiful, to say nothing of the valued! 
society of the Cloud, and our May Avas always pleased. On 
this day she was even more frolicsome than usual; and, hav-, 
ing accidentally broken a wreath of frail, beautiful flowers, 
which she had been weaving, Mr. Melroy so far unbent him- 
self as to say he wished she had never linked a more enduring 
chain. 

" What can he mean ? " thought laughing May ; but at 
that moment her attention was arrested by a field of haymak- 
ers, among whom she recognized familiar faces. The recog- 
nition was mutual ; for instantly a young man called out 
" There 's our May!" and the giddy girl, turning about with U 
an arch smile, and shaking her finger at her companions, 
sprang lightly over the fence, and was soon in the midst of |ir 
the haymakers. The young man, who at first recognized her, 
seized one of her hands, while a woman in a blue frock and) J, 



OUR MAY. 121 

i^alico bonnet appropriated the other ; and the whole party, 
imen, women and children, gathered around the pretty hoyden, 
with a familiarity, which to Miss May was perfectly astound- 
'ing. Our May stood but a moment in the centre of the 
igToup, when a dozen voices, pitched on every imaginable key, 
roared forth a boisterous laugh, not, however, quite drowning 
her own clear, ringing tones ; and then, with a sort of mock 
'courtesy, she was bounding away, when the young man again 
stopped her. Our May paused a moment as though unde- 
cided, while the 3'oung man stood before her, and by hs 
parnest gestures seemed urging some affair of importance. 
Then a little girl was seen to leave the circle, and run until 
she came within hearing of the waiting couple, Avhen she 
tailed out — 

' "Our May — Miss Loomis, I mean — says if you will 
'excuse her, she will walk home alone, as she is n't quite ready 
inow." 

I Mr. Melroy looked at ]\Iiss May, and Miss May looked at 
iMr. Melroy, and then both looked at the offending cousin. 
'She had gone a little aside from the haymakers, and was 
■talking with the young man, and from their manner, it was 
evident that the conversation was intended for no other ear. 
■ " We ought not to leave her," said Mr. Melroy. 
1 " We ought to leave her," said Miss May, in a decided 
tone, and the gentleman complied. 

It would be labor lost to follow home the astounded couple, 
[as, for some reason, neither spoke until they entered Mr, 
Loomis' parlor ; nor even then, for Miss ]\Iay betook herself to 
her embroidery, and Mr. Melroy to the newspaper. 

If our sober readers have not already shut the book, we 
yould like to have them follow our May, our darling, bright, 
■frolicsome, generous-hearted May ; and learn the whole truth 
'before they condemn her. 

Joshua Miller, the owner of the hay-field, was a plain old 

'farmer, that May had often seen in her uncle's store, and for 

whom, indeed, 'Squire Loomis entertained a very great respect. 

fin leaving the store one day, he accidentally dropped his staff, 

11 



122 



I 



and our May, with the lightness of a sylph, sprang before 
him, picked it up, and respectfully, yet with one of her mos'i 
sparkling glances and winning smiles, placed it in the olc' 
man's hand. Nothing can be more flattering to age that,; 
unexpected attention paid them by the young and happy; andi 
father Miller never forgot the pretty, bright-faced girl, whc: 
" did not laugh at him because he was lame." When he 
came to the store afterwards, he always brought some fragranl;. 
delicious offering from the gardener the fields — fruits andi 
flowers of his own gathering, and finally our May found il 
very pleasant to extend her walks to father Miller's farm- 
house, drink of the new milk, admire the cheese, talk of 
economy with the old man's children, and engage in a frolic 
with his grand-children. Her condescension pleased the good; 
people, while her mingled mirthfulness, sweetness and good 
sense charmed them. 

These were the haymakers she had seemed so happy to 
meet ; and the young. man who had urged her stay was Mr. 
Day, father Miller's son-in-law. But this was not an invita- 
tion to the farm-house. A family of Irish laborers had, with- 
in a few days, begged to be admitted into an old log building- 
that stood on father Miller's farm, and the good old man,i 
thinking that he might assist them by giving them employ- 
ment, had readily consented. But the O'Neils had travelled, 
a long, weary way, and been obliged sometimes to sleep upon 
the damp ground ; so that they were scarcely settled before 
the mother and two of the children were seized with a vio- 
lent fever. Mr. Day was anxious that our May should justi 
look in upon the sufferers; and she, with that excessive 
sensitiveness which often accompanies true benevolence, chose 
rather to incur censure for foolish waywardness than to ex- 
plain her conduct. It is often found that those who seem to 
possess the lightest and gayest hearts, have the warmest love 
nestling down among the flowers. These beautiful charac- 
ters pass through the world unostentatiously, seldom recognized 
but by the eye of Omniscience, loved by the angels, and 
sometimes making themselves dear to some holy-hearted saint . 



■ OUR MAY. 123 

near enough to heaven to see clearly the internal loveliness 
of the spirit. 

Our May had still another motive for silence. She knew 
that if her cousin became aware of the situation of the fami- 
ly, she would call a meeting of the society, and the subject 
would be debated till assistance would come too late ; and she 
thought that advice and sympathy, Avith the products of father 
Miller's farm, and the physician whom the contents of her 
own purse might place at her command, would be quite as 
useful to the O'Neils as the Society's money. And then 
another feeling (it could scarce be called a motive) influenced 
our May, when she so unceremoniously sent home her com- 
panions wondering at her eccentricity. Mr. Melroy had 
always seemed to consider her a thoughtless, giddy child ; 
and when any benevolent plan was broached, he invariably 
turned to her cousin, as though he never dreamedrof consult- 
ing her, or supposed it possible that she could be interested ; 
and she felt a kind of pleasure in concealing from him that 
*' lower depth," where dwelt the sacred qualities which too 
often but bubble on the surface. In saying that our May 
was influenced by these considerations, I do not mean to say 
that she thought them over, or that she would have been able 
to present them intelligibly ; she acted from a momentary 
impulse, but the impelling principle was unconsciously made 
up of these motives. 

" No," thought the sunny-hearted May, as she went trip- 
ping lightly homeward, after seeing the O'Neils compara- 
tively comfortable, " No ; however lightly he may esteem me, 
he shall never think that I parade my goodness before his eyes 
for the sake of attracting his admiration." Then our pretty 
May began to wonder what the sober Mr. Melroy meant about 
her " linking a stronger chain ;" and she wondered on so 
absorbingly that she insensibly slackened her pace and almost 
forgot to enter when she reached her uncle's door. 

The young clergyman was still in the parlor ; and although 
Miss May commenced the usual " My dear cousin, I feel it 
my duty to expostulate — " and although the expostulation 



124 OUR MAY. 

was no pleasanter than ever to our May, she did not avail her* ij 
self of the usual "Mr. Melroy — " but sat dumb, with a 
roguishly demure expression, unparalleled by anything lat 
the sometimes exceedingly wise air of a mischievous kitten. 

" I think," said Mr. Melroy, endeavoring to smile, after 
Miss May had three several times appealed to him for his 
opinion, " I think that Miss Loomis (he had never called her 
Miss Loomis before) must be allowed to be the exclusive 
judge of her own actions, since she chooses to conceal her 
motives from her friends." 

" Some people act without motive," interrupted Miss May. ] 
Mr. Melroy shook his head rather dissentingly. i 

" Light minds are guided by impulse," pursued Miss May. i 
]\Ir. Melroy looked more determinedly and severely than ever, ' 
but made no reply. 

" Impulse," observed Miss May, with a wondrously wise [ 
look, " is a very dangerous guide — don't you think so, Mr. 
Melroy ? " 

" The impulse of a bad heart." 

" All hearts are depraved," continued Miss May, meekly 
folding her white hands, and turning her eyes to the carpet. 

" All happy hearts," interposed our May. 

The young clergyman nodded assent ; but it was evident 
that his thoughts were elsewhere. 

" If cousin May would be but a little more sober-minded ! " 
pursued the Cloud, after a proper pause. 

Mr. Melroy glanced at the blushing, half-trembling May, 
and appeared disconcerted. 

" I know she means no harm — she is so thoughtless — but 
don't you really think her exceedingly indiscreet, Mr. Mel- 
roy ? " 

" Excuse me, Miss Loomis," said the young clergyman, 
with a manner of excessive embarrassment. "I — I have no 
right to question the young lady's discretion: and if I at- 
tempted an opinion I might speak too unguardedly." 

" So then you are obliged to put a guard upon your tongue, 
lest I should learn that you consider me a giddy, thoughtless. 



OUR MAY. 125 

imprudent, heartless girl ; " said our May, with hasty ear- 
nestness ; " but it is unnecessary, Mr. Melroy ; I knew your 
opinion of me long ago." 

"Then you know — "began the young pastor, and he 
ooked still more confused. 

" Then why not improve?" asked Miss May, in her very 
kindest tone. 

•>•' Because," answered May, the incorrigible, half recover- 
ing her gayety, " because my most excellent cousin has good- 
ness and discretion enough for both of us ; or," she added 
glancing upward, with a sweetly sobered expression of coun- 
tenance, " because my Father gave me a happy heart and too 
many causes for gratitude to admit of its learning the lesson 
of sadness." 

Mr. Melroy was about to answer, but he was interrupted, 
by a knock at the door ; and our village phj'sician entered in 
great haste. 

" I come," said he to our May, " from O'Neil's — the poor 
woman is worse, and I am afraid she will not hold out much 
longer. I advised them to send for a clergj^man ; but she 
says no one can pray for her like the sweet young lady, who 
visited her to-night. So, my dear, if you will just jump into 
my carriage your face will do more good than my medicine." 

Our May snatched her bonnet, without speaking a word, 
or glancing at the astonished faces beside her ; and she was 
half way to O'Neil's, before she knew that Mr. Melroy was 
by her side, and still held the hand by which he had assisted 
her into the carriage. For some reason, though a tremor 
crept from the heart into that pretty prisoned hand, our May 
cid not think proper to withdraw it ; and soon all selfish 
thoughts were dissipated by the scene of misery upon which 
they entered. Mrs. O'Neil was already dead ; and the Mil- 
lers, in whose hands the kind-hearted physician had left her, 
were endeavoring to silence the clamors of the children, and 
striving all they could to comfort O'Neil, who, with true Irish 
eloquence, was pouring out his lamentations over the corpse 
of his wife. 

11* 



126 OUR MAY. 

" An' there 's the swate leddy who spake the kind word to 
me," said one of the noisy group, springing towards our May; 
" my milher said she was heaven's own angel, sure." 

" "Well, come to me," said our May, " and I will speak to 
you more kind words ; poor things ! you need them sorely." 

The children gathered around the fair young girl, noisily 
at first ; but, as she gradually gained their attention, their 
clamors ceased ; and she at last made them consent to accom- 
pany father Miller to the farm-house where it was thought 
best for them to remain until after the funeral of their poor 
mother. 

" And you will be very good and quiet," said our May, as 
the noisy troop were preparing to leave the hut. 

" Sure an' we will," answered a bright boy, " if it be only 
for the sake of ye'r own beautiful face, Miss." 

Mr. Melroy had succeeded in administering comfort to 
O'Neil, who at last consented to lie down and rest ; and our 
May bent like the ministering angel that she was, over the 
sick couch of the two children, smoothing their pillows and 
bathing their temples. 

" This is a wretched family," observed Mr. Melroy, turning 
to Mr. Day. 

" Ay, but it would have been more wretched still, if it 
had n't been for our May. She came as willingly as the like 
of her would walk into her uncle's parlor, the minute I made 
her know how much she was needed ; and all these little 
comforts are of her ordering. She sent, too, for Dr. Hough- 
ton, and left her purse with me to pay him ; but Dr. Hough- 
ton says he can't take money from such an angel." 

" Is she always so ? " asked Melroy, in a low tone. 

" Always so ! Bless your heart, don't you know she '3 
always so, and you the minister ! Why, she is doing good 
all the time ; she 's kind to everybody ; and no one can help 
loving her." 

" No one can help it," answered Melroy, involuntarily, and 
glancing at our May, who was supporting the head of the 



OUR MAT. 127 

little sufferer on her hand, while she was directing Mrs. Day- 
how to prepare the medicine. 

After the sick children had been cared for, and it was as- 
certained that Mr. and ]\Irs. Day, with one of her sisters, 
would remain at O'Neil's during the night. Dr. Houghton, 
with Mr. Melroy and our May, took leave. The drive home 
was performed in silence ; and young parson Melroy, after 
conducting our May to her uncle's door, pressed her hand, 
with a whispered " God bless you ! " and turned away. 

In less than a twelvemonth from the death of poor Mrs. 
O'Neil, very ominous preparations were going forward in the 
family mansion of 'Squire Loomis. They were ended, at 
last, by the introduction of our May to the pretty parsonage ; 
;and, although years have sobered her but slightly, though 
her happy heart has still " too many causes for gratitude to 
admit of its learning the lesson of sadness," and she still pre- 
fers to do good privately, her husband's is far from being the 
only heart or the only tongue to pronounce the " God bless 
you ! " 



128 



THE WEAVER. 

A WEAVER sat before his loom, 

The shuttle flinging fast, 
And to his web a thread of doom 

Was added at each cast. 

His warp had been by angels spun ; 

Bright was his weft and new, 
Unbraided from life's morning sun, 

Gemmed with life's morning dew. 

And fresh-lipped, beautiful young flowers 

In tissue rich were spread. 
While the weaver told the joy-sped hours 

By his pulse's bounding tread. 

But o'er his brow a shadow crept, 

And on the fabric lay ; 
The shuttle faltered as it swept 

Along its darkened way. 

Gray was the faded thread it bore, 
Dimmed by the touch of thought ; 

And tear-like stains were sprinkled o'er 
The richest broideries wrought. 

Still kept the weaver weaving on, 
Though he wove a texture gray. 

Its tissued brilliance all had gone, 
The gold threads cankered lay. 

And still, with gathering mildew, grew 

Yet duller every thread, 
And mingled some of coal-black hue, 

And some of bloody red. 



THE \\rEAVER. 129 

For things most strange were woven in, 

Corroding griefs and fears, — 
And broken was the web and thin, 

And it dripped with briny tears. 

He longed to fling his toil aside. 

But knew 't would be a sin ; 
So the ceaseless shuttle still he plied, 

Those life-cords weaving in. 

And as he wove, and wept, and wove. 

Fair tempters, stealing nigh, 
With glozing words, to win him strove. 

But he turned away his eye ; 

He turned his aching eye to heaven. 

And wearily wove on, 
Till life's last faltering cast was given. 

The fabric strange was done. 

He flung it round his shoulders bowed, 

And o'er his grizzled head, 
And gathering close his trailing shrouo 

Lay down among the dead. 

And next I marked his robe's wide folc* 

As they swept the fields of air, 
Bright as the arc the sunlight moulds. 

As angel pinions fair. 

And there inwrought was each bright flower. 

As when at first it spmng ; 
The fairy work of morning's hour 

In morning freshness hung. 

And where a tear had left its stain 

A snow-white lily lay, 
And the leaden tracery of pain 

Linked many a jewel's ray. 



130 



THE WEAVER. 

Wherever Grief's meek breath had swept 

There dwelt a rich perfume, 
And bathed in silvery moonlight slept 

The sable work of gloom. 

And then I prayed : — the strange web done. 

To my frail fingers given, 
Be Sorrow's stain the deepest one 

To mar my robe in heaven. 



131 



SAVE THE ERRING! 

There was bustle in the little dressing-voom of young Ella 
Lane ; a dodging about of lights, a constant tramping of a fat, 
good-natured serving-maid, a flitting of curious, smiling little 
girls, and a disarranging of drapery and furniture, not very 
often occurring in this quiet, tasteful corner. An arch-looking 
miss of twelve was standing before a basket of flowers, se- 
lecting the choicest, and studying carefully their arrangement, 
with parted lips and eyes demurely downcast ; as though 
thinking of the time when the little fairy watching so intently 
by her side, would perform the same service for her. On the 
bed lay a light, fleecy dress of white, with silver cords and 
slusters of silver leaves, and sashes of a pale blue, and others 
of a still paler pink, and here and there a little wreath of 
flowers, or a small bunch of marabouts — in short, ornaments 
enough to crush one person, had their weight been at all pro- 
portioned to their bulk. Immediately opposite a small pier- 
glass, sat a girl of seventeen, in half undress, her full, round 
arms shaded only by a fold of linen at the shoulder, and her 
2ye resting very complacently on the little foot placed some- 
what ostentatiously upon an ottoman before her. And, indeed, 
that foot was a very dainty-looking thing, in its close-fitting 
sHpper, altogether unequalled by anything but the finely 
curved and tapered ankle so fully revealed above it. Imme- 
diately behind the chair of the young lady, stood a fair, mild- 
looking matron ; her slender fingers carefully thridding the 
masses of hair mantling the ivory neck and shoulders of her 
eldest daughter, preparatory to platting it into those long 
braids so well calculated to display the contour of a fine head. 
There was a smile upon the mother's lip, not like that dim- 
pling at the corners of the mouth of the little bouquet-maker, 
but a pleased, gratified smile, and yet half-shadowed over by 



132 SAVE THE ERRING. 

a Strange anxiety, that she seemed striving to conceal from 
her happy children. Sometimes her fingers paused in theii 
graceful employment, and her eye rested vacantly wherevej 
it chanced to fall ; and then, with an effort, the listlessnesf 
passed, and the smile came back, though manifestly temperec 
by some heaviness clinging to the heart. 

At last the young girl M^as arrayed ; each braid in its place 
and a wreath of purple buds falling behind the ear ; her sim 
pie dress floating about her slight figure like an airy cloud 
every fold arranged by a mother's careful fingers; her whit( 
kid gloves drawn upon her hands, and fan, bouquet and ker 
chief, all in readiness. The large, warm shawl had beer 
carefully laid upon her shoulders, the mother's kiss was oi 
her bright cheek, and a " don't stay late, dear," in her ear 
she had shaken her fan at the saucy Nelly, and pinchet 
the cheek of Rosa, and was now toying with little Susy'i 
fingers, when the head of the serving-maid was again thrus 
in at the door, to hasten the arrangements. Ella tripped gaih.^ 
down stairs, but when she reached the bottom, she paused. 

" I am sorry to go without you, mamma." 

" I am sorry that you must, dear ; but I hope you will find 
it very pleasant." 

" It will be pleasant, I have no doubt; but, mamma, I am 
afraid that you are not quite well, or, perhaps," she whis 
pered, " you have something to trouble you ; if so, I shouk 
like very much to stay with you." 

" No, dear; I am well, quite well, and — " Mrs. Lane d'u 
not say happy, for the falsehood died on her lip ; but sh( 
smiled so cheerily, and her eye looked so clear ar.d bright a-. 
it met her daughter's, that Ella took it for a negative. 

'" Ah ! I see how it is, mamma ; you are afraid my nei? 
frock is prettier than any of yours ; and you don't mean to bl 
outshone by little people. Do you know, I shall tell Mrs 
Witman all about it ? " 

" I will let you tell anything that you choose, so that yot 
do not show too much vanity ; but don't stay late. Goodi 
night, darling." 



SAVE THE ERh.NG. 133 

" Good-night, till sleeping-time, mamma." And, with a 
light laugh, Ella Lane left her mother's side and sprang into 
the carriage. 

When Mrs. Lane turned from the door, the smile had en- 
' tirely disappeared, and an expression of anxious solicitude 
occupied its place. While the joyous children went bound- 
ing on before her, she paused beneath the hall lamp, and 

• pulling a scrap of paper from her bosom, read — 

I "Do not go out to-night, dear mother; I must see you. 

i He will not come in before eleven — I will be with you at 

lien." 

I It was written in a hurried, irregular hand, and was with- 

'out signature; but it needed none. 

! " My poor, poor boy ! " murmured the now almost weeping 

i mother, as she crushed the paper in her hand and laid it 
back upon her heart. " It may be wrong to deceive him so : 

' but how can a mother refuse to see the son she has carried 

I in her arms and nursed upon her bosom ? Poor Robert ! " 

; Ay, poor Robert, indeed ! the only son of one of the proud- 
est and wealthiest citizens of New York, and yet without a 

I shelter for his head ! 

Mr. Lane had lived a bachelor until the age of forty-two, 

• when he married a beautiful girl of eighteen; the mother 
: whom we have already introduced to our readers. She was 
'gentle and complying; hence, the rigid sternness of his char- 
acter, which so many years of loneliness had by no means 

'tended to soften, seldom had an opportunity to exhibit itself. 

' But the iron was all there, though buried for a time in the 
flowers which love had nursed into bloom above it. Thq 
eldest of their children was a boy ; a frank, heartsome, merry 
fellow — a lamb to those who would condescend to lead him 
by love; but exhibiting, even in infancy, an indomitable will, 

■that occasioned the young mother many an anxious foreboding. 
But as the boy grew toward manhood, a new and deeper 

' cause for anxiety began to appear. To Robert's gayety were 

'added other qualities that made him a fascinating companion ; 
his society was constantly sought, first by the families in 
12 



134 SAVE THE ERRING. 

which his parents were on terms of intimacy, and then by 
others, and still others, till Mrs. Lane began to tremble lest 
among her son's associates might be found some of excep- 
tionable character. By degrees he spent fewer evenings at 
home, went out with her less frequently, and accounted for 
his absence less satisfactorily. Then she spoke to him upon 
the subject, and received his assurance that all was well, that 
she need not be troubled about his falling into bad company. 

But she teas troubled. 

There was at evening a wild sparkle in the boy's eye, and 
an unnatural glow upon his cheek, that told of unhealthy 
excitement ; but in the morning it was all gone, and his gay- 
ety, sometimes his cheerfulness, fled with it. Oh ! what sick- 
ness of heart can compare with that indefinable fear, that 
foreshadowing of evil, which will sometimes creep in betweem 
our trust and our love ; while we dare not show to the object 
of it, much less to others, anything but a smiling lip and a. 
serene brow. Mrs. Lane was anxious, but she confined her 
anxiety to her own bosom ; not even whispering it to her 
husband, lest he should ridicule it on the one hand, or, on 
the other, exercise a severity which should lead to a collision. 
But matters grew worse and worse constantly"; Robert was 
now seldom home till late at night, and then he came heated 
and flurried, and hastened away to bed, as though his moth- 
er's loving eye were a monitor he could not meet. She 
sought opportunities to warn him, as she had formerly done, 
but he feared and evaded them ; and so several more weeks 
passed by — weeks of more importance than many a life-time. 
Finally Mrs. Lane became seriously alarmed, and consulted 
her husband. 

" I have business with you to-night, Robert," said Mr.- 
Lane, pointedly, as the boy was going out after dinner, " and 
will see you in the library at nine o'clock." 

"I — I — have — an engagement, sir. If some other 
hour — " 

" No other hour will do. You have no engagement that 
will be allowed to interfere with those I make for you," 



SAVE THE ERRING. 135 

Kobert was about to answer — perhaps angrily — when he 
caught a glimpse of his mother. Her face was of an ashy- 
hue, and a large tear was trembling in her eye. Ho turned 
hastily away and hurried along the hall ; but before he 
reached the street door, her hand was upon his arm, and she 
whispered in his ear, " Meet your father at nine, as he has 
bidden you, Robert; and do not — for my sake, for your 
mother's sake, dear Robert — do not say anything to exas- 
perate him." 

'• Do not fear, mother," he answered, in a subdued tone ; 
iIkmi, as the door closed behind him, he muttered, " he will 
If exasperated enough with little saying, if his business is 
what I suspect. What a fool I have been — mad — mad ! 
1 wish I had told him at first, without waiting to be driven to 
it; but now — well, I will make one more attempt — desperate 
it must be — and then, if the worst comes, he will only pun- 
ish 9?ie ; that I can bear patiently, for I deserve it; but it 
w luld kill my poor mother — oh ! he must not tell her ! " 

-*Irs. Lane started nervously at every ring of the door-bill 
tlr.it evening; and when at nine she heard it, she could not 
i'i<rhcar stepping into the hall to see who was admitted. It 
was her husband; and only waiting to inquire of the girl if 
]Mr. Robert had yet come in, he passed on to "the library. 
jMrs. Lane found it more difficult than ever to sustain coii- 
vi'isation; she became abstracted, nervous; and when, at last, 
liL'r few evening visiters departed, she was so manifestly re- 
lieved, that Ella inquired, in surprise, if anything had beon 
said or done to annoy her. It was past ten, and Robert had 
not j^et appeared. Finally the bell was pulled violently, and 
she hastened to the door herself. With livid lip and blood- 
shot eye, her son stepped to the threshold ; and, starting at 
sight of her, he hurried away to the library, without giving 
her another glance. How slowly passed the moments to the 
waiting mother ! How she longed to catch but a tone of those 
voiees, both so loved ; that she might know whether they 
sounded in confidence or anger ! What Robert's course had 
been she could not guess ; but she knew that he would be 



136 



SAVE THE ERRING. 



required to give a strict account of himself; and she dreaded 
the effect of her husband's well-known severity. A few min- 
utes passed, (they seemed an age to her,) and then she heard 
the door of the library thrown open ; and, a moment after, a 
quick, light step sounded upon the stairs. It was Robert's. 
" You are not going out again, my son ? " she inquired, 
" Father will tell you why I go, dear mother," said the 
boy, pausing, and pressing her hand affectionately. "I must 
not wait to answer questions now." He passed on till he 
reached the door, then turning back, whispered, " Be at Mrs. 
Hinman's to-morrow evening, mother," and before she had 
time to ask a question or utter an exclamation of surprise, he 
had disappeared up the street. 

But poor Mrs. Lane was soon made acquainted with the 
truth. Mr. Lane was somewhat vexed with himself for not 
perceiving his son's tendency to error before ; and, like many 
another, he seemed resolved to make up in decision what he 
had lost by blindness. It was this which had occasioned his 
sharpness when he made the appointmentj and he considered 
his dignity compromised when nine o'clock passed and his 
son seemed resolved on acting in open disobedience to his 
command. An hour's ruminating on the subject did not tend 
to soften his feelings ; and when, at last, the-culprit appeared, 
he was in a mood for anything but mercy. He demanded 
peremptorily a full confession ; and Robert gave it. He did 
not color, soften, nor extenuate ; but boldly — too boldly, per- 
haps — declaring that he scorned falsehood, he told the w^hole. 
He had fallen into gay society, then into vicious ; and he was 
not the one to occupy a minor position anywhere. Wit and 
wine seduced him ; and in an evil hour he sat down to the 
gamnig-table. He had played at first for a trivial stake, ihen 
more deeply, and to-night, in the hope of retrieving his bad 
fortune, he had plunged in almost past extrication. At any 
time Mr. Lane would have been shocked; now he was exas- 
perated, and spoke bitterly. At first Robert did not retort, 
for he had come in resolved on confession and reformation ; 
but finally repentance was drowned in anger, and he answered 



SAVE THE ERR11»G. 137 

as a son, particularly an erring son, should not. Then a few 
more words ensued, unreasonable on both sides ; Mr. Lane 
asserting that debts so contracted were dishonest ones, and 
should not be paid ; and Robert declaring that they shoidd be 
paid, if he gamed his lifelong to win the money ; till, finally, 
the old man's rage became uncontrollable. It was in obedi- 
ence to his father's command that Robert left his home that 
night, with the order never to cross the threshold again. 

For two or three weeks, Mrs. Lane, now and then, of an 
evening, met her son at the houses of her friends ; and then 
he disappeared almost entirely. While she could meet him, 
and speak a few words, even in a gay party, and perceive 
that he regarded her with as much affection as ever, she con- 
tinued strong in the hope of final reformation and reconcilia- 
tion ; but when, evening after evening, she carried a hoping 
heart abroad, and dragged home a disappointed one, imagi- 
nation busied itself with a thousand horrors. Her first-born, 
her only son, the darling of her young heart, her pride in the 
first years of wedded life, he whom she had loved so fondly, 
and cherished so tenderly — to what vice, what suffering, 
might not he be exposed ! Then she had no confidant, no 
friend to sympathize with or encourage her. Since the first 
disclosure, she had never mentioned Robert's name to her 
husband, and Ella knew only that some angry words had 
estranged her father and brother for a time ; she was enviably 
ignorant of Robert's -guilt and danger. 

The evening on which our story commences, Mrs. Lane 
had intended to spend abroad with her daughter; but had 
been prevented by the receipt of the note above mentioned. 
Robert had never been home since he was commanded to 
leave it ; and though anxious both about the cause and result, 
she could not but he rejoiced at the thought of seeing him 
again in her own private sitting-room. She had many things, 
too, to learn. She wished to know where he lived, how he 
supported himself, and what were his intentions for the future. 
And she wished to expostulate with and advise him ; — in 
\2* 



13S 



SAVE THE BERING. 



short, her mother's heart told her that everything could be 
done in that one evening. I 

While Mrs. Lane walked up and down her little sitting- i 
room, wishing that ten o'clock would come, her son entered | 
his small, scantily furnished apartment in a decent boarding- 
house, and throwing himself upon the only chair within it, he ; 
covered his face with his hands. For a long time he sat in ; 
this position ; then he arose, and taking down a pocket-pistol, I 
examined it carefully, primed it, and laid it beneath his pil- ' 
low. Immediately, however, he took it out, charged it heav- |j 
ily, and laying it on the table, folded his arms and gazed upon t 
it, muttering, " It may be needed when I least expect it. I 
have one friend, at least, while this is by." After pacing two 
or three times across the narrow space between his bed-head 
and the little window at the foot, he opened the door of a 
small closet, and taking thence a cloak and muffler, carefully j 
adjusted them ; then slouching a broad-brimmed hat over his 
eyes, he hurried down the stairs into the street. Two or 
three times Robert Lane paused and reasoned with himself, 
before he reached his father's door ; and even when his hand 
was extended to the bell-knob, he hesitated. 

" I must see her, at any risk," he at last exclaimed, pulling 
lightly upon the cord. 

The girl started when she opened the door, but gave no 
other token of recognition. Robert inquired for Mrs. Lane ; 
and following after the girl, found himself in the back sitting- 
room, remembered but too, too fondly for his composure. As 
S0C1 as the door closed behind him, he cast off his mufflings, 
and throwing himself upon a little ottoman at his mother's 
feet, leaned his forehead on her knees. 

" Is it any new trouble, Robert ? " she inquired, tenderly, ; 
and laying her hand gently on his head, *' any new — guilt ? " 
she whispered, bending her lips close to his ear, and placing 
the other arm over his neck. 

" Tell your mother, Robert — tell her everything — she 
may help you — she will — oh, Robert ! you know she will 
love you, and cling to you through it all ! " 



SAVE THE ERRING. 139 

The boy raised his head, and now she saw, for the first 
time, the change that had come over him. His face was 
haggard, his eye sunk and bloodshot, that round, rosy cheek, 
which her lip had loved to meet, had grown pale and thin, 
and, in place of the gay, careless smile, had risen looks of 
anxiety and bitterness. 

" I shall break your heart, mother," he said, sorrowfully, 
" and poor little Ella's, too. Oh ! it is a dreadful thing to 
murder those one loves best. I never meant to do it — try 
to believe that, dear mother, whatever comes." 

" I do believe it, Robert." 

" Ah! you know only a small part yet; but I could not go 
away without seeing and telling you. I knew you would 
learn it from others, and I wanted to hear you say you could 
love me after all. I knew you would, but I wanted to hear 
you say it." 

" I will, Robert, I will ; but surely you have nothing worse 
to tell than I know already ! " 

The boy looked down ; his lip quivered, and the large 
purple veins upon his forehead worked themselves into knots, 
and rose and fell as though ready to burst at every throb. 

She passed her hand soothingly over them. 

" Whatever it is, Robert, you are not before a harsh judge 
now. Tell it to your mother, my darling boy ; perhaps she 
can assist, advise — she certainly can love you through all." 

" Oh,. mother! you must not speak so, or I can never tell 
you. If you talk like this — if you do not blame me, I shall 
almost wish I had gone away without seeing you. Oh! if I 
had only listened to you six months ago! but they flattered 
me, and I was foolish, I was wicked. But I thought of you 
all the time, mother — of you and Ella — and I promised 
myself, every night when I went to my pillow, that I would 
break away from the things that were entangling me, and 
become all that you desired. I was not conscious then of 
doing anything decidedly wrong ; but I knew that my com- 
panions were not such as you would approve, and I knew — 
I could but know — that I was too rauch intoxicated by their 



140 



SAVE THE ERRING. 



flatteries. At last I resorted to cards; I played very cau- 
tiously at first, and only to do as others did, then for larger 
sums, and again still larger ; till finally it became my sole 
object to recover the moneys I had lost, and thus prevent the 
necessity of applying to my father for more. I still lost, and 
still went on, till finally the discovery, which, I believe, dear 
mother, all in kindness, you brought about, was made. Per- 
haps I was in the wrong, but, mother, it did seem to me dis- 
honorable to refuse to pay those debts which — " 

" Your father was angry, or he would not have refused. 
You tried his patience, Robert, and then, I fear, you were 
more bold than conciliatory." 

" I made one more attempt to better my fortunes that even- 
ing, and the time passed before I was aware of it ; I prom- 
ised — I told them — those scoffers, mother — that it was my 
last evening among them ; I promised myself so, and repeated 
it to my father; and I would have kept my promise — I would. 
But you know how it turned. Then I was desperate." 

Mrs. Lane trembled, and passed her arm caressingly about 
his neck, as though to reassure him. " I met you sev< 
times after that, Robert, arti you did not seem so very > 
happy." 

" I was determined to have the money, mother, and I got ii ." 

"How, Robert?" 

" Not honestly." 

The boy's voice was low and husky; and his hand, af' it 
closed over his mother's while his forehead again rested on 
her knees, was of a death-like chilliness. 

A faintness came over her, a horrid feeling went curdling 
round her heart, and she felt as though her breath was going ' 
away from her. But the cold hand was freezing about hers, 
the throbbing forehead rested on her knees, and every sob, as ^ 
it burst forth uncontrolledly, fell like a crushing weight upon 
her bosom. It was the mother's pitying heart, that, subduing ' 
its own emotions, enabled her again to articulate, though in a 1 
low whisper, " How, Robert ? " 

" By forgery. No matter for the particulars — I could not 



SAVE THE ERRING. 14l 

k 

tell them now, and you could not hear. To-morrow all wiW 
be discovered, and I must escape. Such fear, such agony — 
oh, mother ! what have I not endured ? No punishment men 
can inflict will ever be half so heavy. I deserve it, though 
— all, and ten thousand times more. But I never meant it 
should come to this, mother; believe me, I never did. I 
meant to pay it before now, and I thought I could. I have 
won some money, but not half — scarce a tithe of what I 
ought to have, so there is nothing left but flight and disgrace. 
You do not answer me, mother ; I knew I should break your 
heart, I knew — " 

Mrs. Lane made a strong effort, and murmured brokenly, 

*' To-morrow — to-morrow ! Oh ! my poor, ruined boy I " 

" I know that after deeds cannot compensate, mother ; but 
if a life of rectitude, if — " Robert paused suddenly and 
started to his feet. " I know that step, mother ! " 

" Hush, my son, hush ! " Mrs. Lane had time for no more 
before her husband entered the apartment. A cloud instantly 
overspread his countenance. 

" You here, sirrah ! What business brings you to the 
home you have desecrated ? " * 

" I came to see my mother, sir." 

" Nay," interposed the lady, anticipating the storm that 
seemed gathering on her husband's brow, " let the fault be 
mine. He is my oa\ti child, and I must see him — a little 
while — you cannot refuse to leave me a little while Mnth my 
o\vn boy." 

' It is the last time, then," said Mr. Lane, sternly. 

' The last time ! " echoed Robert, in a tone of mocking 
bitterness. 

" The last time ! " whispered the white lips of the mother, 
as though she had but that moment comprehended it ; and, as 
the door closed upon the retreating form of her husband, she 
slid to the floor, lightly and unresistingly. Robert did not 
attempt to call for assistance ; but he raised her head to his 
bosom, and covered her pale face with his boyish tears. 

** I have killed her ! my poor, poor mother ! " he sobbed. 



142 SAVE THE BERING. 

" That / should be such a wretch ! I! her son ! — with all 
her care and with all her love ! Oh ! if they had but given 
me a coffin for a cradle ! A grave theri would have been a 
blessed thing ; but it is too late now, too late I " 

Mrs. Lane was awakened by the warm tears raining upon 
her face ; and, starting up wildly, she entreated him to be 
gone. ** Every moment is precious ! " she exclaimed, gasp- 
ingly. " You may not make your escape if you do not go 
now. Oh, Robert ! promise me — on your knees, before 
your mother, and in the sight of your God, promise, my poor 
boy, that you tvill forsake the ways of vice, that you will 
become an honorable and a useful man — promise this, Rob- 
ert, and then go ! Your mother, who has gloried, who has 
doted on you, entreats you to be gone from her forever !" 

" I cannot go to-night, mother. I waited to see you, and i 
so lost the opportunity ; but there is no danger. It is too late 
to take a boat now. I shall go to some of the landings above 
when I leave here, and in the morning go aboard the first boat 
that passes." 

Again the mother required the promise of reformation 
and it was given earnestly and solemnly. Then he again sat 
down on the ottoman at her feet; and, with one hand laid- 
lovingly upon his head, and the other clasped in both of his, 
she spent an hour in soothing, counselling, and admonishing 
him. So deeply were both engaged, that neither the merry J 
voice of Ella in the door- way, nor her step along the hall,! 
reached them. 

" Has my mother retired ? " was her first inquiry. 

" No, miss ; she is in the back sitting-room," and before' 
the girl could add that she was engaged with a stranger, Ellai 
had bounded to the door, and flung it wide open. 

" Robert I — you here, Robert ! If I had only knoAvn it, I{ 
should have been home long ago. So you are sorry you 
quarrelled with papa, and you have come back to be a good 
boy, and go out with me when I want a nice beau, and all 
that ! Well, it does look natural to see you here." 

As the young girl spoke she cast hood and shawl upon the' 



SAVE THE ERRING. 143 

floor ; and, with one bared arm thrown carelessly over her 
brother's shoulder, she crouched at her mother's feet, looking 
into her eyes with an expression which seemed to say, " Now 
tell me all about it. You must have had strange doings this 
evening." 

But neither Mrs. Lane nor Robert spoke. The boy only 
strained his sister convulsively to his heart ; while the poor 
mother covered her own face with her hands to hide the tears, 
which, nevertheless, found their way between her jewelled 
fingers. 

The eyes of the fair girl turned from one to another in 
amazement ; then, pressing her lips to the cheek of her 
brother, she whispered, 

" What is it, Robin ? Has papa refused to let you come 
back ? I will ask him ; I will tell him you must come, and 
then you will, for he never refused me anything. Don't cry, 
mamma ; I will go up stairs now, and have it settled. Papa 
cannot say no to me, of course, for I have on the very dress 
he selected himself, and he said I should be irresistible in it. 
I will remind him of that." 

' Alas! my poor Ella!" sobbed Mrs. Lane, " this trouble 
is too great for you to settle. Our Robert has come home 
now for the last time — we part from him to-night forever." 

' Forever ! " and Ella's cheek turned as pale as the white 
glove which she raised to push back the curls from her fore- 
head. 

' Yes, forever" answered Robert, calmly, " I will tell you 
all about it, Ella. You seem not to know that it was some- 
thing worse than a quarrel which lost me my home. I had 
contracted debts — improperly, wickedly — and my father 
refused to pay them. I obtained the money for the purpose, 
and now, Ella, I must escape or — or — " 

" How did you get the money, Robert ? " 

The boy answered in a whisper. 

" You ! " exclaimed Ella, springing to her feet and speak- 
ing almost scornfully ; " you, Robert Lane ! wy brother ! Is 
it so, mamma ? is my brother a villain, a forger, is he — " 



144 SAVE THE ERRING. 

" Hush, Ella, hush ! " interrupted Mrs. Lane. " It is foi 
those who have hard hearts to condemn — not for thee, my 
daughter. There will be insults enough heaped upon lii; 
poor head to-morrow — let him at least have love and pitj 
here." 

" Pity ! Whom did he pity or love when he deliberately — ' 

" Ella ! Ella ! " again interposed Mrs. Lane, almost sternly 

" Nay, mother," said the boy, in a tone of touching mourii' 
fulness, " do not blame poor Ella. She does right to despise 
me. I have outraged her feelings, and disgraced her name 
She deserves pity, and she will need it, when people point a 
her and say what her brother is. I have forfeited all claiir.i 
even to that. Oh, mother! why did you not let me die ir j 
that last sickness ? it would have saved a world of woe." I 

Ella stood for a moment, her head erect, and her lip whitf ' 
and tremulous, while tears came crowding to her eyes, an(3 
her face worked with emotion ; the next she threw herself 
into the arms of her brother. ^ 

" Forgive me, Robin ! my own dear, darling brother ! I di^ 
pity you ! I do love you, and will forever ! But, oh ! it is s; 
horrible thing to be a forger's sister ! I cannot forget that 
Robert, and I vi%cst say it, if it break your heart to hear mej 
it is horrible ! horrible ! " 

" It is horrible, Ella ; I never thought to bring it upon yom 
but — " 

" Why are you here, Robert ? Will they not find you, and 
drag you — oh, mamma ! where shall we hide him ? — whai 
can we do ? " i 

It was several minutes before Ella could be made to com-' 
prehend the absence of immediate danger; and then she 
insisted on hearing all the particulars of the crime, evet.j^, 
though poor Robert appeared to be on the rack while giving.., 
them. She loved her brother dearly, and was distressed fot ;, 
him ; but she thought too of herself, and the disgrace of heiL 
family; hers was not a mother's meek, affectionate heart; aj;, 
mother's all-enduring, self-sacrificing nature. At last she 
started up eagerly. 



SAVE THE ERRING. 145 

" The disgrace may be avoid 3d ; papa will of course shield 
his own name ; I will go to hini directly." 

" But the sin, my child, the conscious degradation ? " in- 
quired Mrs. Lane, with reproof in her mild eye. " What 
will you do with that, Ella ?" 

" Poor Robert ! " whispered the girl, again folding her 
white arms about him ; " he is sorry for what he has done ; 
and our kind Heavenly Father is more ready to forgive than 
we. You will never do such a wicked thing again, dear 
Robin, will you?" 

Robert answered only by convulsive sobs, and Ella, too, 
sobbed for a few moments in company ; then, suddenly break- 
ing away from him, she hurried up the stairs. Along the 
hall she went, as fast as her trembling feet could carry her, 
and past the room in which she had been so happy while wil- 
ling hands decorated her pretty person ; but when she reached 
her father's door, she paused in dread. She could hear his 
hea^y, monotonous tramp as he Avalked up and down the 
room ; and, remembering his almost repulsive sternness, she 
dreaded meeting him. " If I had only knowm it before," 
thought Ella, " all might have been avoided ; but now it is 
almost too much to ask." A fresh burst of tears had no ten- 
dency to calm her ; and she could scarce support her trembling 
'frame, when, repeating to herself, " he must be saved ! " she 
gathered courage to open the door. The old man paused in 
'his promenade, and fixed his troubled eye sternly on the in- 
ftruder, while Ella rushed forward, and, twining her arms 
labout him, buried her face in his bosom. 
' " Oh I I am so wretched ! " she exclaimed, all her courage 
iforsaking her on the instant ; and then she sobbed, as Mr. 
I Lane had never supposed his daughter could. But he did 
flot attempt to quiet her ; he only drew her closer to him, as 
"though he would thus have shielded her from the wretched- 
ness that was bursting her young heart. At last Ella broke 
forth, " Come down and see Robert, papa ; come and save 
him. They will drag him away to prison for forgery, and 
l^cu will be the father of a coudemmed criminal, and I hia 
13 



146 SAVE TIYE ERRING. 

sister. Oh ! do not let him go away from us so, papa — 
come down and see him, and you will pity him — you can- 
not help it." 

" Forgery, Ella ! he has not — " 

" He has! and you must save him, papa, for your own sake 
for all our sakes." 

" Do you know this, Ella ? It is not true — it is a misera- 
ble subterfuge to wheedle money from his mother — money 
O squander amor.g the vile wretches whom he has preferred 
to us. No, send him back to his dissolute — " 

"Is that the way to make him better, papa?" inquired 
Ella, raising her head and fixing her sparkling eye upon him 
resolutely. " You sent him back to them before ; you shut 
him away from yourself and from mamma — you closed the 
door upon my only brother — there was none by to say, ' take 
care, Robin,' none to give him a smile but those who were 
leading him to ruin ; and no wonder that they have mado 
him what he is. Be careful, papa. Robert has committed a 
crime, a dreadful crime ; but it was when you, who should 
have prevented it, had shut your heart against him, when we, 
who might have prevented it, were obliged to go abroad to 
see him, and then could give him no more than a few stolen 
words. It was not just to keep me in ignorance so long, for 
he is my own brother, and only one little year older than I ; 
but I know all about it nowj and if Robert is put in prison, 1 
had almost as lief be in his place as yours." 

" Ella ! Ella ! " 

" I should, papa. I know that one like you cannot do 
\VTong without feeling remorse ; and when you reflect that poor 
Robert might have been saved, if you had only had more 
patience with him, you will never sleep peacefully again." 

" Ella, my child," said the old man, cowering in spite of 
himself, " what has come over you ? Who has set you up 
to talk in this way to your father ? I suppose I am to be 
answerable for this impertinence, too." 

" Oh, papa ! you know this is not impertinence. I have a 
right to say it, for the love I bear my only brother ; you know 



SAVE THE ERKING. 147 

that my own heart is all which has set me up lo it, and yoiu 
heart, dear papa, is saying- the same thing. You vmst forgive 
Robert, and you mmt save him and us the disgrace of an 
exposure." 

" I will avert the disgrace while I have the power, Ella, but 
that will not be long, if he goes on at this rate. Do you 
Ivnow t He amount of money he asks ? " 

" He asks none — I ask for him the sum that you refused 
before." 

" Ah ! he has gained the victory, then. Well, tell him to 
enjoy his villanous triumph. Give him that, and say to him, 
that if he has any decency left he will drop a name which 
has never been stained but by him, and leave us to the little 
peace we may glean, after he has trampled our best feelings 
under foot." 

" Thank you, papa ; and may I not tell him you for^ve 
him ?" 

" No ! " 

" That you pity him ?" 

" No ! " 

" May I not say that when he is reformed he may come 
back to us, and be received with open arms and hearts ? " 

" Say nothing but what I bid you, and go ! " 

Ella turned away with a sigh. She had scarcely closed 
the door when a deep, heavy groan broke upon her ear, and 
sne paused. Anothej and another followed, so heart-rending, 
so agonized, that she grew faint with fear. For a moment 
her hand trembled upon the latch ; and then she raised it, 
and, gliding up to her father, folded her arms about him, and 
pressed her lips to his. 

" Forgive me, dear papa, forgive your own Ella her first 
unkind words. I was thinking only of poor Robert, and did 
not well know what I said. I am sorry — very sorry — can- 
not you forgive me, papa ? " 

" Yes, child, yes. Good-night, darling! — there, go !" 

"And Robert?" 

No answer. 



148 SAVE THE ERRING. 

" You will feel better if you see him, papa." 

"Go! go!" 

Again Ella turned from the door and hurried down the 
stairs. Still the boy sat with his face in his mother's lap, and 
his arms twined about her waist. Both started at sight of her 
slight figure, dressed, as it was, for a different scene from this. 
The pale, anxious face, looking out from the rich masses of 
curls now disarranged and half drawn back behind her ear, 
appeared as though long years had passed over it in that one 
half hour. Poor Ella ! it was a fearful ordeal for glad, buoy 
ant seventeen. 

" There is the money, Robert," she said, flinging the purse 
upon the table, " and now you must go back with me and say 
to our father that you are sorry you have made him mis- 
erable." 

" He will turn me from the door, Ella." 

" And do you not deserve it ? " 

" Ella ! " interposed the tender mother. 

" I do ; that and more. But perhaps he will think I come 
to mock him." 

" Your manner and words will tell him. for what you come. 
You have very nearly killed our poor father, Robert. I have 
seen his grey hairs to-night almost as low as the gi'ave will 
lay them. I have seen him in such agony as none of us are 
capable of enduring. You ought to go to him, Robert — go 
on your knees, and, whatever he says to you, you will have j 
no right to complain." 

Ella, child ! Ella ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lane. " You have 
too much of your father's spirit — that is, too much for a 
woman. Beware how you 'break the bruised reed.' " 

" Ella is right, mother," said the boy, rising. " I will go 
to him — I will tell him how wretched I have made myself; 
how I wish that I could take the whole load of wretchedness, 
and relieve those I love. I will promise him to look out some 
humble corner of the earth and hide myself in it, away from 
his sight forever. Perhaps he will bid me earn his confidence 
by years of rectitude — perhaps he will, but, if he does not, 



SAVE THE ERRING. 149 

Ella is right — whatever he says to nic, if he curse me, I 
shall have no right to complain." 

" But / will complain, Robin ! " exclaimed the girl, with a 
fresh burst of tears ; " and wherever you go, I will go with 
you. Poor, dear papa ! But he shall not separate us — we, 
who have sat upon his knee at the same time — his own dar- 
.ing children ! I will never stay here while you are without a 
home, Robin." 

The excited girl clasped both hands over her brother's arm 
and led the way up stairs ; while the trembling mother fol- 
lowed, praying in her heart that the interview might termi- 
nate more favorably than her fears promised. 

When they entered Mr. Lane's room, the old man sat in 
his armed chair, leaning over a table, and resting his fore- 
head upon his clasped hands. Books were scattered around, 
but they had evidently not been used that evening; there was 
1 glass of water standing beside him, and his neck-cloth was 
ncd as though from faintness. Had his hair become 
r, and his vigorous frame bended within a few days? 
I <• rtainly seemed so; and the heart of the erring boy was 
stricken at the sight. The sorrow that he had brought upon 
lis mother and sister had been duly weighed ; but his stern 
ather had never been reckoned among the sufferers. 

A loud, convulsive sob burst from his bosom, and he threw 
limself, without a word, at the old man's feet. The mother 
Irew near and joined her son ; meanwhile, raising her pale 
"ace pleadingly to her husband's ; and Ella, first kissing her 
'ather's hand, and bathing it with a shower of warm tears 
)laced it on Robert's head. 

" You forgive him, papa — you forgive poor Robin? He 
hall never act wickedly again ; and he is your only son." 

The old man strove to speak, but the words died in his 
hroat ; again he made a strong effort, but emotion overmas- 
ered him ; and, sliding from his chair into the midst of the 
roup, he extended his arms, enclosing all of them, and, bow- 
ag his head to the shoulder of his son, wept aloud. 

" Stay with us, Robert ! " he at last said ; " we can none of 
12* 



150 SIVE THE ERRING. 

US live without you. Stay, and make yourself worthy of the 
love that forgives so much ! " 

Men never knew by what a very hair had once hung Rob- 
ert Lane's welfare ; that a mere breath alone had stood be- 
tween him and ignominy. Years after, when he was an hon- 
ored and respected citizen, adorning his brilliant talents by 
virtues as rare as they were ennobling, no one knew why he 
should turn ever to the erring with encouraging words. The 
key-stone of his generous forbearance was buried in the hearts 
of three, and they all loved him. It was buried ; but yet a 
white-haired old man, who watched his course with an eagle- 
eye, and followed his footsteps dotingly, receiving always the 
most refined and deferential attention, might often have been 
heard muttering to himself, with proud and wondering affec- 
tion, " ' This my son was dead and is alive again ; he was lost 
and is found.' " 



161 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 

•' I WOULD n't take the liberty to say it, but that I like 
you, Doctor," said Squire Boulter to my Uncle Stilling, " I 
would n't say it, but that I like you ; but, really, to see a man 
of your talent wasting life in this way is enough to make the 
very stones cry out." 

" I am never idle. Squire." 

" Perhaps not ; but you do such useless things, and so 
much for other people. A man ought to think a little of his 
own flesh and blood, now and then." 

" I look well to the wants of my family, I am sure." 

Squire Boulter shook his head. 

*' They never go hungry." 

" Oh, of course not." 

" Nor cold." 

" I have n't charged you with being an unfeeling man, 
Doctor ; I know you provide for your family comfortably — 
comfortably in one sense — though I think something beside 
food and clothing necessary to comfort ; but remember the 
rainy day ' — the ' rainy day,' Doctor." 

" That will be quite sufficient when it comes. ' The mor- 
row will take thought for the things of itself,' says the Scrip- 
ture ; and I do not wish to hasten, by premature care, the evil 
day." 

" Ah, but Doctor, that is the sluggard's creed." 

" The text I have given you ? " 

" Your application of it. Just use a little common sense, 
sharpened by your own observation. Supposing you should 
be taken dangerously ill — say to-morrow ? " 

** I have plenty of medicine." 

" And be for six months helpless ? ' 

" Mistress Stilling is an admirable nurse ; as I believe you 
have had occasion to know." 



152 



GENIUS. 

There is a melancholy pleasure in turning over the records 
of genius, and familiarizing ourselves with the secret workings 
of those minds that have, from time to time, made memorable 
the ages in which they lived, and ennobled the several na- 
tions which gave them birth. But it is not the indulgence of 
this feeling which makes such a study peculiarly profitable to 
us : from these records we may learn much of the philosophy 
of the human ' mind in its most luxurious developments. 
Genius seems to be confined to no soil, no government, no 
age or nation, and no rank in society. When men lived in 
wandering tribes, and could boast no literature, the bright 
flame burned among them, although wild and often deadly its 
ray ; and the foot of oppression, which crushes all else, has 
failed to extinguish it. Hence it has rashly been inferred 
that this peculiar gift, possessed by the favored few, may be 
perfected without any exertion on their part, and is subject to 
none of the rules which in all other cases govern intellect ; 
but that, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, it must burst forth 
when and where it will, and be burned up in the blaze of its 
own glory, leaving but the halo of its former brightness 
upon the historic page. This inference, however, is alike 
erroneous and dangerous. Though genius be an unsought 
gift, a peculiar emanation from the Divine Mind, it was not 
originally intended as a glorious curse, to crush the spirit 
which it elevates. Perchance the pent-up stream within the 
soul must find an avenue ; but he who bears the gift may 
choose that avenue, — may direct, control and divert; he may 
scatter the living waters on a thousand objects, or pour their 
whole force upon one ; he may calm and purify them, by this 
means rendering them none the less deep, or he may allow 



GENIUS. 153 

them to clash and foam until, however they sparkle, the dark 
sediments of vice and misery thus made to mingle, may be 
found in every gem. 

Let us turn to the oft-quoted names of Byron and Burns 
— names that can scarcely be mentioned by the admirers of 
genius without a thrill of pain. To the poor ploughman on 
the banks of the Doon was sent the glorious talisman, and 
with it he unlocked the portals of nature, and read truths even 
in the flower overturned by his ploughshare, unseen by corn- 
men eyes. But mark his veering course ; think of his (com- 
paratively) wasted energies. He could love the wild flowers 
in the braes and the sunlight on the banks of his " bonny 
Doon ;" he could, at least at one time, smile at his lowly lot ; 
and he ever contended against fortune with a strong and 
fearless hand. But while the polished society of Edinburgh 
owned his po\*er, and he swayed the hearts of lads and lass- 
es of his own degree at will, he could not control himself; 
and many of those light songs, which are now on gladsome 
lips, might, could we enter into the secrets of the poor bard, 
be but the sad way-marks of the aching heart, as it grew each 
day heavier till it sank into the grave. Burns, the light- 
hearted lover of his " Highland Mary," and Burns, the care- 
worn exciseman, were very difierent persons ; but neither 
outward circumstances nor the genius that characterized both 
alike, was the cause. The world has been blamed in his case ; 
but the world, after it first noticed, could have done nothing 
to save. The poet, had he known his moral strength and 
cared to exert it, could have saved himself, as his superiority 
to many of the foibles and prejudices of human nature and 
his manly independence on many occasions evinced. 

Byron, like his own archangel ruined guiding a fallen son 
of clay in his search after mysteries, has delved among hidden 
treasures and spread before us the richest gems of Helicon ; 
but scarce one of these but is dark in its glory, and, although 
burning with all the fire of heaven-born poesy, sends forth a 
mingled and dangerous ray. But had a mother whispered 
her pious counsels in his ear in boyhood ; had a friendly finger 



154 MY UNCLE STILLING. 

" To poor Miller ? " 

" To ymi." 

" Well, he wants the farm, and I don't." 

" You might get a tenant ; and the profits, without any 
trouble to yourself, would take Harry through college." 

" And Miier ? " 

" He must look out for himself. Every man for himself, 
and success to the sharpest." 

" Success to the truest and the neediest, say I." 

" Well, with your two boys, I don't see but you need the 
farm about as much as Miller ; and though, to be sure, you 
don't like to be praised, I wonder where 's the neighbor who 
would speak his name in the same day with yours, for good- 
ness." 

"I should be a villain, though, to deprive him of his 
rights." 

" Well, that depends upon the way you view the matter 

" There is but one way I should care to view it — a straight- 
forward, honest way." 

" I hope you don't think I would recommend anything dis- 
honest. Doctor ?" 

" Um ! there are different notions about things." 

" And your notions, let me tell you, are not business 
notions, at all." , 

" But they would lead me to do as I would be done by." 

" Now, in this case, your squeamishness really leads you 
to do a wrong to your children. Miller's farm is in fact your 
own property. You have the law on your side, and if you 
should carry your account into any court of justice — " 

" Then I will go home and burn my accounts. God forbid 
that I should keep anything under my roof possessing the 
power to deprive an unfortunate man of his just rights." 

" There are but few men like you. Doctor." 

" There are not many who would act differently in this 
case, I trust." 

" Ah, well-a-day ! If the world were all so — but it is n t 
— it is n't, my dear Doctor ; and such men as you fare hard 
in it." 1 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 155 

" Doctor Stilling is a fool," said Squire Boulter to nis gay 
lady wife, about an hour afterwards. 

" I have always thought so," was the quiet response. 

" Mad ! stark mad ! " 

" And yet you have worried me to death about calling on 
his dowdy wife, and — " 

" They are strange people, I acknowledge it; and yet I 
can't help liking them. If he would exercise a little common 
sense I " 

" If there is a man on earth whom I perfectly detest, Mag- 
gy, it is Squire Boulter," said my Uncle Stilling, settling 
himself comfortably in his leather-cushioned chair, with a 
volume of Seneca in his hand, and a pipe between his lips. 

" Detest ! Why, I thought that you and the Squire were 
great friends. You always stand up for him, I am sure, 
when I just happen to mention any of his faults." 

' Ay, Maggy ; the Squire is a good neighbor — a very 
good neighbor — I will say that for him, any day; and a 
kind man, too, he is — sometimes; but his knavish spirit I do 
detest." 

" Then you do think he is knavish," said my aunt, her 
bright little black eyes twinkling with a rather naughty kind 
of satisfaction. "When I said it, the day Mrs. Boulter flour- 
ished her elegant new cashmere, you thought I went quite 
too far, and laid it all to envy." 

" Ah, Maggy, dear ! and did n't I name the cause aright ? 
But I will give thee a better one now. If a sight of Madam 
Boulter's finery could stir thee up to say severe things of her 
husband, what wouldst thou think, Maggy, of an attempt to 
make me just such another unprincipled villain ? " 

My aunt seemed much less shocked at the mention of the 
liabolical scheme than her good lord had anticipated; her 
jnly reply being, " Pretty hard names for a neighbor to make 
jse of, Walter Stilling." 

" Ay, they are hard names, Maggy ; and really I must 
earn to think more before I speak ; but still I am not sura 



156 MY UNCLE STILLING. 

that they are undeserved. We all have our faults thougl 
and — well — yes — I am glad you checked me, Maggj 
The Squire may be no worse than the rest of us, after all." 

" He is a very grasping man, though." 

" Very." 

" What does he Avant you to do ? " '^ I 

" Collect all that my patients owe me." 

•' A very sensible thing," remarked my Aunt Stilling. 

" Well, there are the Shepards — " 

" Oh, the Shepards are poor — they can't pay." 

" I might take the cow." 

" The cow ! the cow ! How came such a villanous ide; 
as that to enter your head, Walter Stilling?'' 

" Squire Boulter put it there." 

" Oh ! ah — yes, I dare say; that is the way his wife floui 
ishes in so much finery, by distressing the poor. Thanl' 
Heaven, somebody that I could name, has n't her conscienci 
to keep her awake o' nights." 

" Then I hope somebody that I could name, finds a com 
for table woollen shawl a very comely thing, dear Maggy." 

" There are more people than the Shepards who owe you,' 
'said my Aunt Stilling, emphatically. 

" Yes, little Amelia Strong." 

" Pooh, Doctor ! you are only making fun now. Squirti 
Boulter himself would n't be mean enough to take a friend- 
less school-mistress' wages away from her, because, poo); 
thing, she chanced to fall sick." 

" She managed to swallow an immense quantity of mjfi 
costliest kind of medicine." 

" Pooh ! " 

•' And we had to get an extra help on her account." 

" Oh, Betsey Loud needed the wages, and I was glad to 
find work for her." 

" Then you fell sick watching over her, and had that long 
severe fever." 

" I might have had it any way. But I hope you don't 
expect. Doctor, that poor Amelia Strong's money can pay for 
my sickness." 



MV UNCLE STILLING. 157 

" Well, then, there are the Lambs." 

" Oh, darling little EfTie died ; all your medicine could n't 
save her, and they are broken-hearted about it." 
" They are well able to pay." 

" Yes, but somehow folks never think of paying you. I 
do wonder some at the Lambs, though. I should suppose 
they would say something about it — you were with them so 
night and day." 

" I might send in my bill." 

" I would n't do it. Doctor ; no, no, better lose it a dozen 
times over. The poor child is dead, and never will cost 
pioney or trouble more. Let the Lambs pay, if they choose ; 
but I never would ask them — never." 
Well, there arc the Derbyshires." 

Ah, they have a hard enough task to get along, without 
5ur making it worse." 
' And the Jilsons." 

' A family of poor helpless women, all the time sick. We 
should be kind to the ' widows and fatherless,' Walter." 

" Then there are the Millers ; I have heavy demands on 
them. I bought a couple of notes, to prevent some hard- 
hearted people from distressing them, when they were all 
down with the epidemic ; and these, with my own bills, aided 
by a little politic manoeuvring, give me such an advantage, 
that I might possess myself of a deed of their little farm, 
wiiliout difficulty." 

" Ah, but you never had a thought of doing it, I am sure, 
Walter ; and Kitty in a consumption, and Allan such a crip- 
ple ? No, no ; you never would touch the farm of the Millers, 
not you." 

' Squire Boulter thinks I am a fool for not doing it." 
' Squire Boulter is a scoundrel, then." 
' Who uses hard names now, Maggy ? " 
' He is a scoundrel ; and his ill-gotten wealth will come to 
no good, I am sure. I would walk the streets barefoot, before 
[ would flaunt out as Mrs. Boulter docs." 

' And your bare feet would look quite as well as hei 
14 



158 MY UNCLE STILLING. 

French kid slippers on this muddy morning," said my Uncle 
Stilling, throwing a glance through the window, as the veri- 
table lady was passing. 

" Ah, yes ! there she goes ! See how she minces and — " 

" Ah, Maggy, Maggy ! think of that matter of a conscience 
thou hast mentioned. And after thou hast proved thyself the 
happier woman of the two, think how wicked it is to rail 
against the unfortunate." 

" But her airs are provoking — as though her finery and 
grand house should set her up above her neighbors ! " 

'■ Do her airs make her more agreeable to her friends ? " 

" Oh, no ! " 

" To anybody ? " 

" No, indeed ! " ji 

" Then thou shouldst pity her, my good Maggy; for she i: 
labors very hard for nought." 

" She has more enemies than any woman I know." 

" Ah, then she is doubly unfortunate — enemies Avithout 
and enemies within. Poor Mistress Boulter ! ". 

" You would wish her great fiery eye anywhere but on i|iii 
you, if she should hear you say, ' Poor Mrs. Boulter ! ' It n 
would be full enough of wrath to burn your eyelashes." 

" Then she shall not hear me say it ; but I will pity her, , . 
notwithstanding. Go we back to my bills, Maggy. What j ii 
say you to the Remmingtons ? " ■ i' 

" Pshaw ! you are fooling. Doctor " 

" And the Bells ? " 

" Our own cousins." 

" Second cousins." 

" Well, we will go to them when we have cooked our last ii>] 
potato." i' 

" Bravo, Meg ! you are almost a philosopher. I like to 
near you talk so bravely of the last potato. But here is one 
more family on my list — the Wilsons." 

" Throw your old account-book into the fire, Doctor. I • - 
verily believe there is not a family in all Cedarville so ab»e |c 
to pay as we are to lose it." 'i 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 359 

" Right, right, iny girl ! and not a family in all the state, 
in the whole country, happier than we in our plain, homely 
independence. Why, we alway.s have enough; our house 
is better than a palace, since our doors are strong enough to 
shut contentment in; and then our brave beautiful boys — 
who so rich as we, Maggy ? " 

The sparkling eyes of my Aunt Stilling became strangely 
soft and dewy ; and there was a grateful expression on her 
placid face, which convinced her husband that the demon of 
envy was expelled, at least for a season. 

I think a jury of twelve honest, world-wise men, selected 
from any rank or class in the land, would have coincided with 
the opinion of Squire Boulter, that my Uncle Stilling was a 
great spendthrift of that inner wealth called talent. He was 
1 wise man, and ingenious in many things, and deeply versed 
30th in books and men ; yet he never had made himself rich 
In tliis world's goods, and had now no higher honors than the 
learts of all the people about Cedarville. My Uncle Stilling 
oved well enough the pleasant things that brighten men's 
Dathways ; but he loved honor and truth and kindness and 
iToodness better. His heart warmed toward every human 
peing; every man was his brother. The poor, a young 
brother whom he was bound to Avatch over, soothe, aid and 
protect. But my Uncle Stilling did not confine his kindness 

any single class. The poor and unfortunate were more 
)eculiarly his friends — these called forth all the deep-seated 
enderness of his nature ; but the rich, too, the gay and glad- 
some, had their share of the gentle, fresh -hearted old man's 
ympathy. The young were his companions ; and not a child 
ii all the country round but sprang to his arms as to those of 

1 beloved parent. 

My Uncle Stilling was not indolent, and yet he was usu- 
illy considered a great time-waster. No matter how urgent 
lis business or how great a matter was at stake if it con- 
lemed himself only, the sick claimed always his most assid- 
lous attention. If his hand could best administer the cool- 



160 MY UNCLE STILLING. 

ing draught, this was the nearest, the immediate duty ; if his 
kind voice had a soothing or cheering power, it belonged to 
his patients as much as his medicine did ; and the opposite 
scale, with the loss or gain of a few dollars thrown into it, 
kicked the beam. It would have done so with the estate of a 
millionaire. In truth, though all loved the good Doctor, and 
were scarce willing to believe he had a fault, there were many 
who used to say with Squire Boulter, that it was a great pity 
he should know so little of the worth of money. Sometimes 
my aunt thought it a pity, too ; for, though she shared deeply 
in his kindness of heart, she had bat a small portion of his 
philosophical indifference to the fruits of an indulgence in it. 
The fine dress and fine furniture of her neighbors dazzled her 
benevolent eyes ; and she could scarce see why she must deny , 
herself of luxuries Avhich, according to universal consent, were 
within her reach. So my aunt would think the matter over, 
(a very dangerous practice, by the way, when the thinking ia 
all on one side of the question,) and, as she thought, grow 
dignified, then stern, then awfully severe ; and, fully clad in 
such dark mental clouds, step into the presence of her good 
easy spouse to pour the concentrated storm on his devoted 
head. But my aunt was really a charitable personage ; and, 
though she wanted to "have her pie and eat it" both at once, 
though she wanted to "buy the hobby-horse and keep the 
money," she was always duly horrified at the idea of indulg- 
ing her vanity at the expense of her benevolence. And very 
well did my Uncle Stilling know the love-moulded key which 
unlocked her sympathetic heart. When she began with a 
biting word, (known to be caustic only by the emphatically 
dignified " Walter Stilling") she usually ended with a tear 
of sympathy for some sufferer, or a glow of gratitude on ac- 
count of her own blessings. 

My uncle had yet other ways of wasting his time than over 
his patients. He was a great naturalist ; not a shell or pebble 
escaped his notice ; not a plant could spring up in the field 
but my Uncle Stilling's eye watched it with a parental inter- 
est. The different bird-notes which made the woodland glad 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 161 

were all as familiar to him as the voices of his children ; he 
knew the little green blade which peeped earliest from the 
mould in the spring time, and the leaves which latest yielded 
to the kiss of the ice-lipped frost-spirit ; and he knew the pat- 
tern and material of every little nest which was hidden away 

' beneath the summer foliage. Whole days would he spend 
(waste, his neighbors said) wandering over field or wood- 
land ; returning at dew-fall with a fresh outlay of dew upon 

' his own heart, and calling his little family about him to rejoice 
over the prize he had discovered. And suck a prize ! A 
handful of weeds — a pocket-handkerchief of mosses — b\jf- 
a-dozen petrifactions — a forsaken bird's nest — all these were 
precious things in the eyes of my Uncle Stilling. Roger 
Acton's wondrous pot of money, even when the eager eyes 

[ of the half-crazed expectant first lighted on it, was incapable 
of producing such a joyous heart-bound as the discovery of a 
new floral treasure communicated to my good uncle. It was 
an electricity passing up through the mysteriously linked 
chain of God's works, from the beautiful in matter to the 
beautiful in spirit. My uncle's nature was like the woodland 
flower, with the dew and perfume as fresh upon it as when 
its unfolding petals first looked out upon the sunlight. And 
when the pure blooming counterpart was found, his feet 
moved almost as blithely as those of wild Harry himself; 
and Harry, and little Will, and pretty Susy, soon caught the 
infection; knowing first by my uncle's eyes, and afterwards 
by putting his own estimate on his treasures, when to be glad. 
As for my Aunt Stilling, she could not exactly see the use of 
bringing all these things in to litter up the house, but she did 
not really like to say as much ; for, kind, gentle soul that she 
was, it did her heart good to see her husband and children 
happy. Not that it was a rare sight by any means ; but my 
Aunt Stilling knew, by peeping into other houses what a 
comfortless guest she might introduce at her fire-side. 

Still another way of wasting time had my Uncle Stilling. 
He knew very well that he was neither poet nor painter ; but 
here was scarce a pretty eye in the country round that he 
]4# 



162 MY UNCLt STILLING. 

had not written verses to, and scarce a house but could show 
some specimen of his handiwork Avith the pencil. His verses 
praised the bright eye and the handsome lip right gallantly; 
but they always reminded the fair possessor of those charms 
of more enduring and still lovelier beauties. His verses were 
pure and vigorous, rich with good sense, though sometimes 
rather deficient in poetic fancies ; and each bore to the partic- 
ular individual which had called out the effusion an esfiecial 
and pointed heart-lesson. Had any of his young friends been 
g lilty of a wrong, my Uncle Stilling administered his gentle 
rep. oof in rhyme ; and thus gilded over, the bitter pill, which 
might otherwise have been cast away, became quite palatable. 
His paintings were usually holyday presents. When Christ- 
mas came he was the Santa Claus of at least five square 
miles ; and on New Year's day his capacious and well 
crammed saddle-bags were quite innocent of physic. More- 
over, he knew the precise age of every young person in the 
neighborhood ; and he never neglected to honor in his simple 
way the anniversary of a birth-day. His pictures were like 
his verses — illustrations of some every-day truth which 
young people are apt to forget ; and always carefully adapted 
to the taste and character of those to whom they were pre- 
sented. My uncle knew that there was now and then a per- 
son of his parish (Parson Adams was not half as much the 
shepherd of his flock as was the pious, simple-souled Doctor) 
who did not set a very high value on either his verses or his 
pictures, and for these he had other and more acceptable gifts. 
Bouquets of flowers, with a slip of paper around each, telling 
the language ; books carefully marked by his pencil ; and, on 
great occasions, glass cases of birds, stuffed and arranged by 
his own fingers. There is even now a singularly pure moral 
atmosphere pervading Cedarville ; and it is not diflicult to 
believe that the heart-warm breath of my Uncle Stilling still 
animates the natures which were early moulded by his sim- 
ple, plain, but high-minded, precepts, aided by acts quite as 
guileless and unselfish. Blessings on the single-hearted and 
the good ! A high intellect is a gift from God — a pure heart 
is his dwelling place. 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 163 

Twenty years had passed, not without leaving some traces; 
for however noiseless the tread of the grey-beard, his foot- 
steps are always discernible on our frail sands. He had, 
however, trodden very lightly over Cedarville, and had been 
particularly gentle with my Uncle Stilling. The old man 
still lived in his little white cottage with the green blinds and 
latticed portico ; and his good dame, as good and benevolent 
and careful of his comfort as ever, was still by his side. The 
grape-vine porch was rather more luxuriantly covered with 
the dark, rich foliage, but otherwise it looked the same as 
twenty years before. The white rose-bushes climbed to the 
eaves as they had done in former times ; the lilacs bordered 
the path from the gate to the door- way ; and the holly-hocks 
and purple mallows bloomed in neat rows along the garden 
patch. The squash-vines still crept about among the hills of 
sweet corn ; the peas and beans budded and blossomed and 
yielded up their produce down by the meadow fence ; the 
melon-patch had not moved an inch from its old place in the 
corner ; and the long, narrow beds of beets, carrots, parsnips 
and onions, still exhibited their even, carefully weeded rows, 
in the foreground. Directly beneath my Aunt Stilling's win- 
dow were the self-same treasures that had occupied that dis- 
tinguished position twenty years previous — the sage, ihjTne, 
rue, camomile, worm-wood, celery, caraway, and various other 
trifles, cultivated by her own hand. The currant-bushes, too, 
were the same ; and ,if those two cherry-trees adorning tlic 
grass-plot, where my aunt still spread her linen to bleach, 
were not the identical ones to which wild Harry owed so 
many tumbles in his babyhood, they were strangely like them. 
But wild Harry was now a man, with a frolicsome counter- 
I part of himself to tumble from cherry-trees and keep grand- 
1 mama tremulous with alarms, which had gathered peculiar 
i strength with the dignity of a new title. My Uncle Stilling 
I was no richer than ever ; but he was just as comfortable, and 
I just as contented, and just as happy. His wishes with regard 
to his children were all gratified, and particularly so in the 
case of his darling Willy ; who, according to universal con- 



164 MY UNCLE STILLING. 

sent, was a "bright aud shining light" in Cedarville. The 
young clergyman had taken the place of Parson Adams, on 
his demise ; and his flock lost nothing by having the virtues 
of my Uncle Stilling — gentleness, simplicity, contentment, 
benevolence, trust and love — engrafted on the piety which i 
looks to be of doubtful origin when these are kept in the 
backgi'ound. If pride be a sin, then was my Uncle Stilling ' 
more sinful with his white hairs on than he had been in all. 
his life before. He was proud, indeed, of his noble, high- 
minded, half-sainted boy. Did any one speak kindly of him 
— and that was an every-day thing — the old man's still 
sunny eyes began to draw up moisture from the heart ; and ! 
Avords of warm praise were always rewarded by a gush of 
grateful tears. Every Sabbath, when he walked down the 
church aisle and saw the faces of the congregation kindling 
with love as they gathered around the sacred desk to greet 
their young pastor, his heart and eyes overflowed together, 
and he was wont to say in the words of one as guileless and 
as enthusiastic as himself, " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant 
depart in peace." My Uncle Stilling was proud of his eldest 
son, too ; but it was a different kind of pride. Harry had 1 
gone abroad from him and had made separate interests, (al- 
though the love-link between them was still stronger than in 
most hearts,) and won much applause among men. The old ' 
man was not indifferent to these honors, for he knew that they 
were the reward of his son's virtues ; but he valued the vir- 
tues themselves much higher. The sight of Harry and his 
young wife and their beautiful children, (a snow-drop and an 
oak in miniature,) made my uncle's heart swell with proud 
coftness ; but it was on Willy that the more than womanly 
tenderness of his strangely gifted nature was lavished most 
unsparingly. Nor must sweet Susy be forgotten, for she was 
my Aunt Stilling's "staff and comfort." Susy could not, of 
course, be spared from the village, though the little white cot- 
tage was scarce grand enough for the wife of its greatest law- 
yer. So there was a handsome house built at the farther end 
of the garden ; and when young Mrs. Eastman did not dine 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 165 

with mamma Stilling, why, dear mamma must make one, 
and the good Doctor another, and darling brother Willy 
another, at the board of the lawyer's lady. Few men are so 
blessed in age as my Uncle Stilling, for very few have so 
spent their prime. He was now reaping the harvest that he 
had sown in other days, and it was truly a golden one to his 
heart. 

Directly opposite the little white cottage was a large, showy 
mansion, erected by Squire Boulter when his coffers were 
fullest. The fine garden was now all overrun with weeds, 
and the pleasant summer-house had quite gone to decay. 
Only a few flowers of the most enduring kind remained, and 
they were fast yielding to the rank weeds. The choice fruit 
trees stood dead and blackened, their leafless limbs all covered 
with mould ; and the shrubbery was broken down and ne- 
glected. A pitiful sight was that once handsome garden, and 
no less pitiful the neglected house. The wide gravel-walk 
leading to it had grown into a narrow foot-path ; the shade- 
trees were unpruned, and long dead vines clung to their 
trunks and swung to and fro in the air ; the marble door-stone 
was broken and mossed over on the outer edges; and the 
shutters above hung in shattered remnants, some on a single 
hinge. Here, all alone, dwelt Squire Boulter. His wife had 
long since gone to her final rest; and his son, whose future 
welfare had been the one engrossing thought of other days, 
had strangely repaid his care. Edmund Boulter had been 
the playmate of Harry Stilling, and was then esteemed a 
bright, active lad, who would, in all probability, take some 
decided part in the world, either for good or evil. Every 
indulgence of a certain character had been shown him in his 
childhood, but it was not the kind of indulgence which .leaves 
a soft impress. Squire Boulter had believed that nothing 
could be done without money ; and his son adopted a still 
more dangerous faith — no pleasure was worth enjoying that 
money did not purchase. The effect of this belief need not 
now be traced out ; it requires but a look to the right or left 
to see it all ; for Edmund Boulter's was no untrodden path. 



166 My UNCLE STILLING. 

He was an only child ; and, of course, knew before he had 
counted a dozen summers, that he was heir to wealth consid- 
ered in Cedarville immeasurable. And so, slowly and by 
degrees, as the years went by, came the old story of ruined 
intellect and ruined heart — a godlike image desecrated. By 
the time Edmund Boulter was a man, more tears had been 
shed over him than ever wetted the pillow of the dead; and 
he had become to the Squire a constant living heart-ache. 
And now the old man endeavored to teach, by severity, les- 
sons which should have been melted into the pliant heart 
before selfishness had spread above it the impenetrable crust 
that now shut it firmly in. Alternate sternness and lavish 
indulgence only increased the evil ; and finally, the unhappy 
father resolved to try a desperate experiment, and shake off 
his son entirely for the present. 

" You are a strong, able-bodied man," said Squire Boulter, 
" and you have a good profession ; this," putting a paper into 
his hand, " is all I shall give you. You are henceforth to 
depend entirely on your own resources." 

Edmund did not for a moment believe his'father in earnest, 
so he accepted the check, laughingly, and launched out into 
new extravagances. But he soon learned his mistake. Then 
he pleaded and threatened by turns ; but the old man was 
inexorable. 

" After all that I have done for you ! " he would say, bitterly. 
" If I had been the careless father that Doctor Stilling has, 

it might better be borne ; but now out of my presence, 

ingrate ! " 

Edmund Boulter went away, and for years was not heard 
of, except perhaps by his father. What his life was during 
this time may be guessed ; for the old man's eye gtew every 
day heavier, and the furrows in his cheek deeper ; but he did 
not relent. 

Early one bright morning, just as the first heaven-messen- 
gers were giving their color to the gems which clustered about 
every leaf and grass-blade, my Uncle Stilling sat by the win- 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 167 

dow, carefully conning a book which had been brought home 
the evening before by his darling Willy. As he raised his 
eyes from the page, they fell upon something without, which 
at once riveted his attention. He looked earnestly for a 
while; pulled off his spectacles, and then looked again; took 
another pair from his pocket, carefully wiped the glasses ; 
adjusted them as carefully, and then leaned out of the win- 
dow with unusual interest. Suddenly his head was drawn 
back. 

" Maggj' ! Maggy ! " My uncle's cheek was pale, and his 
voice husky. " Maggy ! — quick ! — here ! " 

My aunt came — an old, old woman, quite gray, a wrinkle 
on her forehead, the most placid of smiles cm her lip, her form 
slightly bended, but with the step of a girl. 

" What is that, Maggy ? " 

" Where ? " 

" There, in — in — " 

" I don't see." 

" Bless your heart! in the Squire's yard, on — on the big 
horse-chestnut." 

My aunt looked a moment, and a strange, alarmed ex- 
pression came over her face. 

" What is it, Maggy ? " 

" I — I don't — know, Walter." 

The words were gasped out rather than spoken. 

"Do you think — tkere, don't be frightened — don't be 
frightened, child — perhaps — perhaps it 's nothing. I 'II just 
step over — " 

" No, no, Walter ! you're an old man — let Willy go — 
such sights — " 

My aunt was interrupted by a violent ringing at the door, 
and a cry of alarm from the street. 

No, no ! Such sights were not befitting eyes like thine, 
my dear, old, gentle-hearted uncle ! Suspended by the neck 
from the horse-chestnut, dead, quite dead, hung the daring, 
dissolute Edmund Boulter; and prostrate beside his own 
door-stone, his white hairs flecked with the blood which was 



168 MY UNCLE STILLING. 

oozing from his lips and nostrils, lay the inanimate form of 
the stricken father. 

" He has murdered the old man, and then hung himself," 
was the first exclamation. 

But this was a hasty judgment. Edmund Boulter was not 
guilty of parricide by violent means, whatever a nicer judge 
might decide with regard to invisible weapons. 

A wondering, awe-stricken multitude followed the suicide 
to his grave ; while my good Uncle Stilling strove to quiet 
the ravings of the miserable parent. The son had returned 
to the village the evening before, and endeavored to gain ad- 
mittance at the door of his father ; but he was peremptorily 
refused. 

" I will haunt you forever, for this ! " were the last words 
that Squire Boulter heard, accompanied by an oath which 
made him shudder. They had troubled his dreams in the 
night-time, and once he thought he heard them again. He 
listened. There was a noise as of strangulation, accompanied 
by a wild, horrid laugh, that was yet mere a yell of anguish. 
He threw up the sash, and for a moment thought there was 
an unusual commotion among the leaves of the horse-chestnut. 
Then all was still. The moon looked down peacefully, the 
stars shone out in sweetness, and not a footstep or a feathered 
thing was astir. Squire Boulter went back again to his pil- 
low, but his stern resolution began to melt. In the morning 
he rose early, and went out to seek his son, resolving to try 
once more the effect of kindness. It was too late. The 
wretched man had seized recklessly upon Eternity, and Time 
had receded from him. 

" It is of no use — no use. Doctor," said Squire Boulter 
in one of his lucid moments, " my son is carried to a dishon^ 
ored grave, while yours stands up in the desk and points the 
moral. Is that the Almighty's justice ? " 

" God has a clearer eye than we have," was the soft re- 
sponse of my uncle. 

" If I had been as neglectful as you. Doctor — if I had beer 



MY UNCLE STILLING. 169 

such a father as you have — but I would have bartered my 
soul to Satan, for that boy's good." 

" Better have bent the knee to God, my poor neighbor," 
murmured my Uncle Stilling, softly. 

There was a reproach in the words, but not in the tone or 
manner ; for my uncle's sympathetic nature was all melted 
into tears. He was not the avenging angel to wound even 
by truth an already bruised and bleeding heart. Squire 
Boulter had walked blindfold all his life ; and the light now 
would have been a "consuming fire to him." My Uncle 
Stilling had endeavored to remove the bandage when all 
were happy ; but now his Avhole study was to ease the rack- 
ing pain of a woe-laden heart. And he partially succeeded 
— only partially. The wound was incurable, and the barbed 
arrow rankled and cankered in the old man's bosom, till 
another grave was opened, and the gentle young pastor 
prayed above it ; and the sod lay upon the breast of Squire 
Boulter. 

15 



170 



;'NICKIE BEN." 

We have a lawyer at Alderbrook — three of them, indeed 
— but one we have worth talking about, one who has been 
talked about — one who has been blown upon, if not by " the 
breath of fame," by that gossiping approach to it which is 
fame's stage-coach — one, in short, who deserves a historian. 
Now, do not " think you see him," dear reader, before I be- 
gin ; and so place before your mind's eye a little, spare, cun- 
ning, smooth-tongued fox of an attorney, whom it will be my 
bounden duty to demolish. 

" A face like a wedge, made to force its -way through the 
world, eyes like black beans a-boiling in milk, and a step like 
a cat's — " 

Not a bit of it. Oh, no ! you do not see our lawyer. 

Benjamin Nichols, or "Nickie Ben," as he has been irrev- 
erently re-christened by some wag, with the consent, of every- 
body, has a voice — oh, such a voice ! the north wind is an 
infant's whisper to it — stands very nearly six feet in his 
stockings, and is of dimensions never scoffed at. In good 
sooth, that brawny arm might have wielded the genuine old 
Scottish claymore by the side of Robert Bruce, and other 
worthies of the times that were, and never have been ashamed 
of the muscles in it. Nickie Ben, however, was reserved for 
more elegant diversions than hewing off men's heads, and 
slicing down their shoulders ; and he rewarded fate for her 
flattering favors to himself by entering Avith great zest into 
the spirit which governs the modem world. In place of such 
boisterous cries as " A Bruce ! A Bruce ! " "A Richard ! A 
Richard ! " or " Beau-seant ! " he slipped his fingers quietly 
to the bottom of his eel-skin purse, laid his thumb against the 
pillars, and his forefinger against the kingly head upon the 



NICKIE BEN. 171 

sixpences there; while his eye twinkled, and his features 
worked in a way fully to prove his loyalty to that little piece 
of coin, and his determination to die, if need be, in the ser- 
vice of the favxily. 

Nickie Ben's boyhood was none of the easiest. He never 
laid his head on a pillow of down, poor boy ! nor had a softer 
covering than a heavy patch- work quilt, stuffed with cotton ; 
indeed, it used to be shrewdly suspected by some inquisitive 
neighbors, that even the quilt was sometimes lacking, and that 
young Nickie might have rolled up his day-wearables to rest 
his head upon. However that might be, the Widow Nichols 
managed to keep up appearances to the level of humble re- 
spectability ; and, though she and her daughter Betsy and 
her son Ben might all have breakfasted on a smaller allow- 
ance than would have served Squire Risdel for lunch, not an 
intimation to that effect ever crossed the lips of one of the 
family. Nothing about them bespoke the meagre fare, except 
the meagre frame ; the preponderance of bone and sinew 
over flesh and quick blood. If you would see the really suf- 
fering poor, do not go to the wretched hovel where famine 
dwells confessedly, and poverty draws the outlines of its own 
gaunt figure on lintel and casement ; but turn to those who 
are ashamed to say they want ; whose brows knit while their 
lips smile ; who, wearing the pinched look, find their cares 
increased by laboring always for its concealment. There is 
poverty unmitigated — unmitigated by the hope of human 
sympathy ; a thing, however, which galls oftener than it 
soothes. 

I do not know that the Widow Nichols belonged entirely 
lo the above mentioned class — indeed, I rather think that if 
she did, she maintained the character on a particularly small 
scale ; she was seldom pinched in her allowance of eatables 
more than enough to give her a good appetite, and never laid 
claim to anything higher than respectable, industrious inde- 
pendence. The good widow was a genuine worker; and, as 
industrious, clever women usually have some little foible, she 
could not be expected to be exempt. It was, accordingly 



172 NICKIE BEN. 

reported at Alderbrook, that, during the lifetime of the elder 
Benny, (who, by the way, was a remarkably " shiftless man ") 
this " crown to her husband " was, to all intents and purposes, 
the head of the family ; and, in her love of rule, not uufre- 
quently drove from the door with such weapons as the broom 
and poker, the head which she should have graced. But old 
Benny was " gathered to his fathers," and the sceptre remained 
undisputed in the hands of the widow. And now, indeed, 
she wielded it to good purpose. 

Betsy was older than young Ben, old enough, indeed, to 
"do a deal of work;" and it was soon decided in the mind 
of the widow that the daughter should sacrifice herself to the i 
son's advancement. To be sure, Betsy was a girl after | 
the mother's own heart, industrious and pains-taking ; and I 
Ben was rather inclined to saunter in his father's footsteps ; ! 
but the widow was of the opinion that the bent twig might be i 
braced and straightened ; and, after all, it must be owned that ' 
a son may be " the making of a family," while the daughter 
only holds the candle to him. Ben's education was the thing 
to be accomplished; and Betsy and Betsy's mother heeded 
neither aching eyes nor aching fingers while earning, stitch by 1 
stitch, the scanty pittance which was to make the son and ! 
brother great. Ben was indolent, but he was grQieixA-ish ; \ 
and when he thought of the two busy needles, the scanty ' 
board and hard bed at Alderbrook, he would have had more 
than human selfishness to neglect his studies and waste his ' 
time. Ben did not, however, believe that gratitude precluded 
yawning, and as the difference between skimming over a book 
and diving into it had never been made quite clear to his 
perceptions, he may be forgiven for preferring the first method, 
which, I have been told, is much in vogue now, since accom- 
plished scholars are no longer the fashion. Ben skimmea 
successfully at college ; and brought away a degree and the 
pre-nomen of Nickie. By this time there was one needle 
less at Alberbrook. Poor Betsy had finished her work, worn 
herself out with labor ; and the widow was alone. 

It is doubtful whether Nickie Ben would have made much 



NICKIE BEN. 173 

nse of his lore but for the pushing that was still kept up by 
the widow ; but with her own single hand she put him in the 
way of a profession, and pushed him through into the very 
bar. I say she did it, and I say correctly; for, although 
Nickie Ben was beginning to imitate her shrewdness and 
energy, he never would have performed the feat of his own 
accord. Of Nickie Ben's legal knowledge I say nothing; 
for what can women know of such things ? but I have heard 
that he was not very long in obtaining practice. He had a 
peculiar gift at pettifogging, (a very essential qualification in 
such out-o'-the-way places as Alderbrook,) and great profes- 
sional acumen, for he snuffed a case in every fresh breeze that 
visited him ; and kindly pointed out to his neighbors insults 
and abuses which they would never have seen but by the help 
of his superior discernment. No quarrel was so small but 
he found room to thrust in a finger ; no matter so contempti- 
ble but the salt of the law, applied by Nickie Ben, preserved 
and dignified it into something, to stay on men's memories ; 
and no coin was so trifling but our lawyer esteemed it worth 
a full hour's bickering. His pillow was now as hard, and his 
dinner as light as in boyhood ; but it was no longer from 
necessity. Ben was economical. Some said he was mean, 
penurious ; men spoke of him with a curling lip, and not a 
single woman knew him. But what was all this to Nickie 
Ben ? He was effectually aroused from his boyish indolence, 
and he was determined to be rich — rich — kich ! The word 
had been dinned in his ear by his mother until he knew all 
the changes that could possibly be rung upon it ; and no slav- 
ery was too abject to be made a stepping-stone to the golden 
throne which he saw in the far-off future. Not that Ben 
Nichols " sold his soul to Mammon ;" he sacrificed his man- 
liness and independence to — public opinion. You do not 
see how it is, dear reader. I will show you. 

Years went by, and our lawyer became "Auld Nickie 

Ben ;" though his head had a less Aveight of time upon it 

than his appearance indicated. But he was as plodding, as 

careful, as penurious as ever. Everybody said that he was a 

15* 



174 NICKIE BEN. 

confirmed bachelor ; and everybody sneered at him as a des- 
testable miser. Yet do not think for a moment that Nick« 
was a thin, cadaverous man, with a face the color of his gold 
and shoulders graced with a consumptive curve — he was 
anything but that. I think, however, I have before mentione( 
his physical capabilities. 

Every morning before the sun was up, in summer and win' 
ter, rain and sunshine, our lawyer might have been seen, bj 
any early riser, out taking his habitual exercise. He always 
walked up a green lane, about a mile west of the village 
whence he proceeded along the border of the woods, ove: 
the top of Strawberry Hill, and down into the ravine beyond 
until he reached the toll-gate at the foot of the hill on the 
east. The remainder of his walk was on the side of the roao 
back to Alderbrook. By this means Nickie Ben made him 
self visible in the course of the morning to all the villager, 
who chose to look at him ; and many were the impertinen 
little misses whose giddy eyes took the measure of his short 
waisted coat, and feasted their love of fun on his heavy boots 
with their clumsy shape, and the iron nails in their heels, anc 
mimicked his gait, and talked mockingly of the piles of pen- 
nies in his coffers. Everybody despised Ben Nichols ; and 
yet he had never, like many an honorable man, defrauded the 
widow of her dues, or been a canker on the orphan's birth- 
right ; he had never taken a penny that was not justly his 
own ; but he had never given away, or wasted or bartered 
without due consideration, even the hundredth part of the 
smallest coin current. 

The little brown cottage occupied by the widow and hei 
son was never visited by the villagers ; for the old lady had 
no interests in common with them ; her "boy" was the centre; 
of all her thoughts, wishes and affections, and his doings their 
circumference. But she did not dote as other mothers do. 
She did not offer his head a resting place when he came home 
wearied, and endeavor, by presetiting pleasant subjects, to 
divert his mind from the toils and cares of the day ; but she 
inquired after his clients, what business had come to him since 



NICKIE BEN. 



175 



the morning, how tlie matters of yesterday were adjusted, 
and how much money they had brought him. Sometimes 
a vague suspicion entered the mind of poor Nickie Ben that 
he was not living to the best purpose ; that there was some- 
thing other men enjoyed which he did not; sometimes he 
even felt the dog-like treatment which he received at the 
hands of his fellows ; but then, with a hard drawn breath, he 
would repeat to himself, " hereafter — hereafter ! " and go on 
,bis way perseveriugly. Thus, year in, year out, Benjamin 
Nichols breathed his proportion of air, and filled his propor- 
tion of space, until he reached " life's meridian height," and 
travelled the distance of five years on the downward slope ; 
and then, all of a sudden, " a change came o'er the spirit of 
hi^ " selfishness. The widow was alarmed, and interposed 
lior maternal authority — then reasoning — then entreaty; 
bill it was useless. The sceptre had passed from her hand 
— her reign was at an end. 

One day the village Avas thrown into great amazement by 
the report that Mrs. Nichols and her- son had taken seats in 
ithe eastern stage-coach ; for the old lady had not been out of 
, Alderbrook within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, and 
1 the lawyer never moved but at a business call. The matter 
, ;was a nine days' wonder, and scarcely grew stale afterward. 
Two, three, and four w^eeks passed, and, finally, late of a 
. Saturday night, the stage brought back the unusual travellers. 
1 The news soon spread through the' village, coupled with ru- 
, mors of a wondrous metamorphose. Indeed, it was reported 
that the widow and her son could scarcely be recognized by 
, those who had been accustomed to seeing them every day. 
J. All Sunday morning, not an eye in church but was prone 
J to wander to the pew where sat the Nicholses — they could 
■not help it ; who could blame them ? The enormous bonnet, 
of a rusty black, that the old lady had worn ever since the 
, day of her daughter's funeral ; the scant, old-fashioned gown, 
, with its gored skirt, waist of a finger's length, and sleeves 
nearly meeting in the back ; and the thin shawl, embroidered 
all over with darns, and always bearing the print of the 



176 NICKIE BEN. 

smoothing-iron, were displaced by articles richer than any 
shopkeeper in Alderbrook would venture to purchase. Every- 
body was amazed ; almost everybody felt inclined to smile ; 
a great many touched their neighbors on the arm, and indi- 
cated by some slight gesture the direction that the eye should 
take ; and a few of the least reverent in the congregation 
whispered, " Bless me ! how young the "Widow Nichols 
looks ! " And they had reason, for the old lady seemed to 
have taken a new lease of life. Brussels laces and fashion- 
able bonnets loill meddle with Time's pencil, though they 
cannot stay his scythe. But the widow attracted a very 
small share of attention in comparison with her son. Every- 
thing about him was new. The cut of his coat had changed 
hio figure completely, and the inward hilarity consequent 
upon emancipation from the slavery of penny counting, had 
changed his face so that he was really handsome. But there 
was another thing which aided the transformation of the face 
not a little. The short, coarse hair, standing out from his 
head like the quills of a porcupine, had been turned by some 
magic into luxuriant curls, smooth and glossy and black as 
the wing of a raven, straying back from his forehead as 
though too much at home there to think of a better resting 
place. Those beautiful curls ! Why, there was not a young 
beau in the village who would have ventured to show his head 
beside them. And, really, Nickie Ben was a fine-looking man 
— quite the gentleman — with nothing exceptionable about 
him, from kid gloves to French boots — even the tie of his 
cravat was comme ilfaut. We watched him — Ada Palmer 
and I — after the services were over, as he tucked his mother 
under his arm, not very gently, and strode, with even more 
than his usual swing, down the street. 

" He has not been to a walking school," whispered Ada. 

The gait was pretty much all that was left to prove Nickie 
Ben's identity. 

" They stop at the ' Sheaf and Sickle,' " continued Ada, 
still looking after them. " It would be wonderful if they 
have gone into the extravagance of taking rooms there." 



NICKIE BEN. 177 

Wonderful, indeed, but it was none the less true. The 
.ittle brown house was quite too small for the metamorphosed 
lawyer ; and though the old lady groaned a little, and talked 
of ruin, she submitted with a much better grace than could 
have been expected. And now it somehow happened that 
two or three neighbors looked in upon her ; and, though the 
widow talked a great deal of her son, and seemed to forget 
that there was anyb)dy else worth caring for in the world, 
they bore with the foible very patiently. As for the son him- 
self, he began to evince a strong tendency to socialness, and 
even managed to obtain an introduction to several ladies of 
the village, persons who had grown up around him entirely 
unobserved before. 

One bright morning Ada Palmer and I were out with our 
baskets, despite the little night jewellers that had left a siring 
of diamonds on every grass blade ; and it chanced to be pre- 
cisely the hour that the lawyer was in the habit of crossing 
Strawberry Hill. I will not assert that we were ignorant of 
this peculiar habit of his, nor that our glances were all di- 
rected to the knoll spotted over with crimson, while he passed 
along the edge of the woods ; these are irrelevant matters. 
But it chanced that the bachelor lawyer, after walking over 
the top of the fence, like an emperor, came, with his swinging 
arms and swinging person, and long, hasty strides, to the very 
part of the hill where we were demurely engaged in picking 
berries, like two sensible, industrious girls, and — Did you evor 
see a glowing sunlight bursting from the edges of a black storm 
cloud ? Then you may have some faint notion of the magical 
eTect of a smile on such a face as Nickie Ben's. Who could 
resist it? Not Ada Palmer or her friend Fanny. I much 
doubt if the lawyer had ever been smiled upon before, or had 
ever heard a voice softer than his mother's, for his face was 
full of a pleased, bashful wonder. We had supposed, when 
placing ourselves in Nickie Ben's path, that if his new humor 
should lead him to look at us, he would consider us little chil- 
dren, with whom he might frolic if he chose, and for a frolic 
we were fully prepared. But not so — what had he to do 



178 NICKIE BEN. j 

with ch:ldren's play ? — that is, real, genuine care-for-n ought I 
play. Life had been a sober, earnest term to him thus far ; 
and now he was as sober and earnest in looking for pleasure 
as he ever had been in looking for money. Now he was a 
rich man, he could pay for his enjoyments ; and should he 
stoop to pick up those which the beggar might possess ? Of 
course all these thoughts did not pass through the lawyer's 
mind while crossing Strawberry Hill. They did not pass 
through, because they remained there all the time ; they had 
resolved themselves into ever-present /eeZire^s; and he had 
no disposition to be anything but in earnest. We did not 
altogether understand this, however; and when the lawyer 
doffed his hat, and smiled, and in his best tones bade us a 
good-morning, though we smiled in return, and bowed, and 
said " good morning," too, the embarrassment was all on our 
side, 

" How stupid ! " exclaimed Ada, as soon as he was out of 
hearing. 

"Who? we or Nickie Ben?" 

" Both, I think. Here we have lost a morning nap, got 
our dresses draggled with dew, and turned the laugh of every- 
body ag'ainst us, ^for nobody will ever believe we came for 
strawberries,) just for the sake of hearing a stupid old Jew 
of a fellow, who ought to have had that new wig of his when 
we were in our cradles, remind us that we are young ladies. 
Come, Fan, we may as well go home and take a dish A cof- 
fee upon it." 

" With a dozen berries each?" 

" We will hide the baskets in the grass, and say we came 
out for the benefit of the dew to brighten our complexions. 
But I will never laugh again about Nickie Ben, not even his 
walk and his bow. We are the simpletons." 

Ada and I did not go to Strawberry Hill again in the 
morning; and in a few days, I began to observe that her 
belle-ship took a deal of extra pains to avoid, without down- 
right incivility, meeting the lawyer in the street. Next, it 
was rumored throughout the village that Nickie Ben had 



NICKIE BEN. 1?9 

called at Deacon Palmer's ; next, that he was in the habit of 
calling frequently; and, finally, that he, as often as twice a 
week, spent an entire evening there. But I chanced to be in 
possession of a secret of which the villagers Avere ignorant, 
I suppose it is a well-known fact that country people cannot 
be " not at home," with impunity, like dwellers in the town ; 
so Nickie Ben's tremendous knock was always a signal for 
Ada's slipping through the back door, and bounding across 
the clover-field to Underbill . It was a disagreeable state of 
things, very ; and Ada declared that she would never return 
a bachelor's smile again, till she had first asked his intentions. 
But the lawyer was on the shady side of forty, and he had 
now no time to lose in chasing the butterfly caprices of a 
spoiled belle ; so he decided on a single bold stroke. 

The two evenings formerly spent with good Deacon Palmer 
(and very often whole days and nights) were now devoted to 
the study of architecture ; and he could talk of nothing (Nickie 
Ben had really become a conversationist) but Grecian cottages, 
beautiful country residences, and such like subjects to make 
rustics stare, from morning to dew-fall. And Nickie Ben 
was not one to talk in vain. A fine meadow on the west of 
Alderbrook, without a stone upon it, and so smooth and even 
that a Yankee would have invented a machine for mowing it 
at a single slice without grazing earth, was finally selected 
and purchased of its .owner. And now came parlies of work- 
men and loads of lumber, and the beautiful meadow was turned 
into a scene of wild confusion. But it was a confusion that 
had the elements of- order in it ; for soon there arose in the 
centre of the green a most graceful structure, which hands a 
plenty were employed in adorning. No fault could be found 
with it; it was simple and convenient and exquisitely beauti- 
ful ; and well it might be, for Nickie Ben's purse had paid 
for the taste which planned, as well as the labor which reared 
it. And the lawyer rubbed his hands right gleefully when 
people praised his cottage, and blessed — himself that he was 
rich. The cottage was finally finished, and then more than 
one head was employed in furnishing it. Marble, and rose- 



180 NICKIE BEN. 

wood, and mahogany, and Brussels, and Turkey, and crim 
son damask, and chandeliers, and other words belonging to 
the vocabulary of luxury, were now very common on the lips 
of Nickie Ben ; and, after talking for a proper time, he set 
out, with a paid friend at his elbow, for New York. By this 
lime gossiping neighbors began to measure, mentally and with 
their tongues, the depth of his purse, venturing surmises con- 
cerning its exhaustion ; but they had forgotten the quiet little 
streams which keep the ocean full, and the lawyer had good 
reason to smile at their surmises. Nickie Ben's next extrav- 
agance was a carriage — a " splendid affair" — with all the 
belongings necessary and unnecessary, by no means omitting 
the " gentleman " to hold the ribbons. This last was a mas- 
ter stroke of policy ; and, by the way, O ye half-despairing, 
half-hoping lovers, take the advice of one who has a right to 
know the heel of Achilles in a woman's heart, and, when 
everything else fails, set up a carriage. It was really pro- 
voking to see the lawyer whirl through the streets, his fine 
blood-horses prancing, his harness glittering, and his carriage 
sweeping the air with such conscious, indisputable superiority, 
with nobody younger and fairer than the widow by his side ; 
it was tantalizing, and many a pretty belle -was heard to ac- 
knowledge that if she were Ada Palmer it would be very 
tempting. To be sure the fine carriage in our muddy uneven 
streets looked a little like a Canary bird in a quagmire ; but 
that was something that the elderly people could appreciate 
better than we ; and the carriage gained the lawyer more re- 
spect from those whose respect he valued just now most, than 
even his rare cottage with its luxurious furniture. 

Do you now see how Nickie Ben sacrificed his manliness 
and independence to public opinion ? 

And Ada ? 

Oh ! Ada laughed, and jumped into her father's big hay 
wagon, and rode wherever she chose ; and so the laugh of 
the whole village was on her side. Alas ! poor Nickie Ben ! 
— Alas ! — no, I recall the sympathy. AVTiat has a man with 
plenty of money in his purse, and a head rife with plans for 



NICKIE BEN. 181 

enjoying it, to do with sighing? The rich lawyer was not 
discouraged ; he was only disappointed ; and his most painful 
feeling was regret for the loss of time. He immediately in- 
stalled the widow mistress of the new cottage ; procured an 
array of servants, probably in order to gratify her love of 
rule ; and then, stepping into his carriage, he turned his 
horses' head eastward. In a few weeks he returned in high 
spirits ; and, though he bowed to everybody, and smiled, and 
appeared more social than ever, nobody, not even Ada Palmer, 
crossed the street to avoid meeting him. 

Spring came in trippingly, full of playful freaks and sweet 
caprices ; and before many buds had opened, the lawyer's 
carriage had whirled him away from Alderbrook. We were 
on the qui vive. Who was to be mistress of the beautiful 
cottage ? how looked she ? was she old or young ? pretty or 
plain ? Of course she would be purse proud, for who would 
marry Nickie Ben but for his money? — and she would be 
vulgar and showy — and nobody would like her — that was 
certain. But the satisfactory certainty did not silence curi- 
osity. 

It was Sunday morning, and every lid was up in Aider- 
brook ; for the lawyer had returned with his bride. 

" Now for velvets, and ribbons, and laces," whispered Ada 
Palmer, though in a place where she should not have whis- 
pered, as she caught a glimpse of Nickie Ben's carriage froi.i 
the window. 

The next muinent every eye in the church was turned to 
the door, and the lawyer opened it and entered. That his 
bride ! or had the little white violet nestled in the moss by 
the brook-side, stolen a pulse from the grass, and a form from 
the guardians that bend over it in the night-time ? Where 
had Nickie Ben found that pure, living dew-drop? and how 
came it in his possession ? The sweet bride opened her 
innocent blue eyes as she entered; and then immediately the 
long lashes drooped over them, and rested meekly on the 
dainty pillow below, and, wi^h a startled, timid look, she 
instinctively drew a little nearer her husband. It would have 
16 



182 NICKIE BEN. 

required an Amazon to meet the stare of that surprised con' 
gregalion. And she was a simple, lovely creature, jus 
emerged from childhood ; a yet unfolded bud, that the brcezf 
had never kissed, nor the sun rifled of a single sweet. Hat 
money bought this treasure ? It was hard to think it, auc 
yet — we did. 

The next day the whole village called upon the gentle gir 
that our despised lawyer had given a home among us. Ii 
was late in the day when Ada Palmer and myself followed 
the fashion set us, and proceeded to the cottage. The bride 
was evidently wearied with the tedious ceremonies to which 
she had been subjected, and had flung herself on a sofa lo 
rest. There was something like vexation, with a slight dash 
of merriment in it, on her countenance, when more visiters 
were announced ; and we saw it in a moment, and saw, too, 
how infinitely amusing to one as young as ourselves, must 
have been the day's grave formalities. I do not think we 
smiled, at least more than was proper ; we certainly spoke as 
the deacon himself might have spoken ; but somehow, (and I 
shall always put implicit faith in Mesmerism therefor,) the 
lady became aware of the presence of sympathy and appre- 
ciation, and her pretty, childish face grew bright with its' 
expression of frank pleasure. Not a word had been spoken 
but strictly ceremonial ones; not a tell-tale muscle znoved;, 
but there was a shining out of the heart upon the face, and \ 
we all comprehended the delicate pantomime. So we drew ! 
up our chairs, forming a close group, and — " where is ever 
the use " of confining the tongue after one has used a more 
expressive language ? — we were friends and confidants past i 

recall, and we were children enough to trust each other as \ 

1 
wiser people never trust. We talked of Alderbrook, and the 

people in it, and made plans for the summer, and laughed 

and cliattered on till the twilight grew very gray ; and then ' 

we begged of our new acquaintance not to send for lights, 

and threatened to go away if she did, and spoke and acted in , 

all respects like privileged friends. So she sat down by us ■ 

iigain J and the pensiveness of the hour mellowed our gayety 



NICKIE BEN. 183 

Into something no less happy, but a little holier. And then 
sweet Mrs. Nichols told us something of herself. She was 
an orphan, not yet out of mourning ; and that was why 
she wore no bridal ornaments. She talked of her mother — 
how she had faded day by day ; and how she had laid her 
thin hand lovingly upon the forehead of her only child, and 
talked to her of the dark, dark future, when there would be 
a coffin and a heap of earth between them two ; and as she 
'talked and wept, we wept, too, as though the loss had been 
'our own. Then she told of a kind man who came to them, 
'and how generously he acted, and how nobly promised ; and 
how she had loved him from the first moment, though it was 
a long time before she dreamed of becoming his wife. And 
'then she smiled, and blushed, and looked half-frightened, as 
'though doubting if she had not said too much. But we told 
her we were glad that Mr. Nichols had been so kind ; and 
that was touching the right chord. Oh ! so kind ! we could 
know nothing about it. Her poor mother had blessed him 
with her last breath, and had said that he was certainly sent 
of God. She did not know that the world contained such good 
people before ; he had done everything for her ; and now he 
"bad brought her to such a sweet home — it was fit for a prin- 
cess. She could never thank him enough, and (blushing 
again) love him enough ; all she could do would be to watch 
'carefully that no trouble came to him which she could charm 
away, and to study his wishes always — but that Avould be 
no return ; could we think of anything she could do more ? 
There was a well-known step on the stair, and the face of the 
pretty young wife lighted up with animation ; so we pressed 
her bright lips, like old friends, and promising to " come again 
to-morrow," turned away. 

It was very late that night before Ada and I parted ; for the 
gentle, guileless stranger had grown quite to our hearts, and 
we talked over her prospects with doubt and trembling. But 
there was no need. Love had been dew and sunshine to the 
delicate plant ; and now the very consciousness on the part 
of Benjamin Nichols that he could not understand nor fully 



1S4 NICKIE BEN. 

appreciate her, only made him worship her the more. He 
had sought her to please himself; he was interested by her 
gentle sweetness, and her gratitude touched a chord in his 
bosom that had never before been stirred ; it reached below 
the encrusting selfishness of a life-time. He had never loved 
anything before, and now his love became idolatry. All this 
was so new and strange that he seemed to himself a fresh- 
hearted boy, just beginning the world; just learning the al- 
phabet of life, such as God intended we should have it; and 
he turned to his unsuspecting teacher with new devotion 
every hour. Ah ! what a feeling of self-respect came with 
the certainty that she, at least, preferred himself to his riches ; 
that, were he a beggar, she would be the same ; and how . 
trivial appeared his possessions, in comparison with the pearl 
that he had at first sought only to adorn them. 

The moral ? Nay, reader mine, you had no promise of 
that. It is scarcely fair to attempt to turn a lady's boudoir i 
into a laboratory. I have a little garden — a very little one; 
and I will gather you bouquets from it of such flowers as I 
can cultivate, begging you kindly to fling aside the weeds, ■ 
and forgive the oversight of their admission. But I am only 
a florist, and have no skill in the arts of chemical analysis 
and combination. Accept, then, my simple offering of flowers, 
since these perishable things are all I have, and fling them 
into your own alembic. Though their life pass with my own 
summer, I would fain hope that some heart may thus extract 
a perfume that will lie upon it when the florist and her h 
ble labors are alike forgotten. 



1S5 



WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 

Oh, whither have they fled — 

Those spirits kind and warn., 
Which, numbered with the dead, 

Have nobly braved the storm ; 
And gained a port at last, 

A port of peace and rest, 
Where, earthly perils past, 

Their happy souls are blest ? 

In some bright-beaming star, 

Do they weave the pencilled rays, 
Which, streaming from afar. 

Upon our vision blaze ? 
Or is the flickering light, 

Which the varying twilight brings, 
As it glimmers on our sight, 

But the waving of their wings ? 

Perchance along the sky. 

The far-oflf azure dome. 
They wing them free and high. 

In their lofty spirit-home ; 
And the cooling zephyr's wing. 

As it fans the brow of care, 
In its voiceless whispering. 

May a message from them bear. 

I have read a page that tells, 
Of a home beyo7id the sky ; 

Where the ransomed spirit dwells. 
With the God of love on high. 
16* 



186 WHERE ARE THE DEAD? 

There, their crowns of living light, 
They cast down at his feet, 

To seek this lower night, 

And the child of sorrow greet. 

Low, where dark shadows fall 

On the heart and on the brain, 
Where earthly pleasures pall. 

And the bosom throbs with pain J 
There, with kindly lingering stay, 

On their ministry of love. 
They smooth the thorny way, 

And point to rest above. 



187 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 

Have you seen Miss Follansbe, the elegant I\Iiss Catha- 
rine Follansbe, belle and beauty ? You must have met her 
at some of the gay watering-places ; for she has frequented 
the most fashionable during the season. A genuine star is 
she, not of the first magnitude, perhaps, though requiring but 
the reputation of being an heiress, and a little less personal 
dignity and haughty reserve, to rank above the most brilliant. 
She has shone at Washington, too, during two or three gay 
winters ; and it has been whispered among the young lady's 
most intimate friends, that more than one coronet has been at 
her disposal, to say nothing of the honors of senators, and 
purses of millionaires. How that may be I know not, bul I 
do know all about Miss Follansbe's first lover. 

Ten years ago the radiant belle was only little Katy Fol- 
lansbe, or " Lily Katy," as she was generally called — I sup- 
pose on account of the pure transparency of that white skin 
of hers, and the slender gracefulness of her fragile little 
figure, looking for all the world like a drooping osier branch, 
or that most spiritual of flowering things, the lily of the val- 
ley. You will not believe that the proud, queenly Miss Fol- 
lansbe was ever such a pale, shy creature, all nature, all 
simplicity and untaught grace ; and, indeed, there is but little, 
save that sweet, childish moutlk, to prove Lily Katy and the 
self-possessed belle identical. 

Ten years ago Squire Follansbe was not, as now, " one of 
the first families " in Peltonville, and Lily Katy bounded into 
hei fourteenth summer singing cheerily, " My face is my for- 
tune," and verily believing (if she thought anything about it) 
that no other fortune was necessary. Foolish Katy ! Squire 
Follansbe had a growing family to care for, and no means of 



188 THE YOUNG DREAM. ' 

procuring the wherewithal for their maintenance, but his owr 
fruitful brain, seconded by a most economical and matter-of- i 
fact helpmate. The squire was one of those all-enduring 
all-hoping beings, an office-seeker ; and while golden vision; ' 
of futurity were knotting up his brain into strange devices, i 
not unfrequently happened that his purse hugged its last six' 
pence, and the bare walls of his empty larder sent a chill tc 
the heart of his good lady. There were bills, too. Om , 
bright spring morning Lily Katy crept away to her own room 
with incomprehensible misgivings at seeing her school bi.' ' 
presented. Thither the mother soon followed, and a long 
confidential communication ensued. Lily Katy had nevei 
felt so important in her life as on that morning, for she hac 
been entrusted with weighty secrets; and, if she did not gro\^ 
six inches taller, in those two hours, she was certainly a yeai 
older. It is strange how lightly men will throw that shadow 
called thoughtfulness on a young face, that, but for the spirit'; 
joyance, would be a blank without ; for it changes the whole 
current of life, and implants in the awakened heart the seec 
of all its misery, and its sweetest bliss. And a word, a glance 
will sometimes touch the hidden spring, which, being onc( 
opened, will flow on forever. Lily Katy sprang from hei 
couch that morning a child, a careless, buoyant, beautifu 
child ; and she sat down at the dinner-table a woman ; a verj 
little woman, it is true, and so girlish in her pretty ways, thasil 
it would have required a close observer to note the change 
but yet changed forever. Something, however, in her ap 
pearance seemed to attract the attention of the squire ; for he 
paused several times in the discussion of his cutlet, to look a' 
her strangely serious face; a»d at last inquired if his pretty 
darling was quite well. Little did he dream that the chile 
had been diving her pretty head to the bottom of his affaira 
deeper than he ever ventured to look himself, and had come 
up with a care lodged in every dimple. 

In a fortnight from that time Lily Katy was duly installed 
sole sovereign of the sixteen square feet enclosed within the 
walls of a district school-house, some three or four miles froro 



niE YOUNG DREAM. 1S9 

Peltonville ; and, of course, she was no longer a child. She 
was very small, and very young, and there were many wise 
shakes of the head when she first assumed her responsibili- 
ties ; but soon all acknowledged that she was so " pretty- 
spoken," and so discreet withal, that she was fully competent 
to take charge of her dozen and a half abecedarians. And 
she was a miracle of a little teacher. The fat, shy ragamuf- 
fins that gathered around her knee advanced surprisingly in 
itheir primitive lore ; and Lily Katy soon became the pet of 
the whole district. The Chifferings, living in the large, white 
house, with three butternuts and a black cherry-tree in front ; 
the Beltons, a more intellectual but less wealthy family, occu- 
pying the low, brown house at the foot of the hill; and the 
'Thompsons, a respectable family of widowed women-folks, on 
'the cross road around the corner, all took her into especial 
ifavor. It was at the Chifferings', however, that Katy made 
!her home ; because they had a roomy house, roomy hearts, 
land three bouncing, good-natured daughters, (the two sons, of 
: course, had no influence in the case,) who would have served 
!the little school-mistress on their knees, if a glance of her 
: sweet blue eyes had but bidden them. 

Before many weeks passed Katy had become a mighty 
I queen, with every family within two miles o? her seat of gov- 
^ernment for dutiful subjects. But this was not all; her fame 
had spread into the neighboring districts. 

One night, on returning from school, Katy observed a horse 
tied to one of the butternuts in front of Mr. Chiffering's, crop- 
\ ping the fresh grass very lazily, as though it were no ne\\ 
thing to him, and only resorted to by way of killing time. 
•' So-ho ! " thought the little lady, " company ! " and then she 
smoothed the folds of her dress, and peeped over her shoulder 
to see that the flaxen ringlets were doing no discredit to their 
dainty resting-place ; for there was something about the sleek 
steed and his belongings that spoke well for his master. 
" So-ho !" repeated the lady, with an arch smile, bending her 
slight figure a very little, and peering away up among the 
apple-trees. " So-ho ! master dandy ! you are not usually on 



190 THE YOUNG DREAM. 

such intimate terms with the Chifferings, I dare say." And 
there, sure enough, under the shadow of the old farmer's 
favorite " graft," his heel kicking the turf most unmercifully, 
stood a slender, girlish-looking youth, almost as white as her- 
self, in earnest conference with the two broad-shouldered 
young Chifferings. But Katy had no more time for observa- 
tion. She had just become visible to the inmates of tlie 
house, and she now found herself forcibly seized upon by her 
three friends, and borne away to the privacy of an upper bed- 
room ; while all together proceeded to unfold an exceedingly 
rich budget of news. The pretty youth in the orchard was 
Arthur Truesdail, son of old Farmer Truesdail, of Crow Hill ; 
but his errand was the important matter. There was a beau- 
tiful piece of woodland within his father's domain, and this 
w.as destined to be the scene of a grand pic-nic, to which all 
the young people for six miles round would be invited. Ar- 
thur was a college boy, just come home to spend his summer 
vacation, and, of course, (in spite of beaver and broadcloth.) 
the belle of the neighborhood. And very belle-Yike, indeed, 
looked the girlish youth, there beneath the apple-trees ; with 
the bright curls peeping from beneath his cap of purple vel- 
vet, and his white hand coquetting with Robert Chiffering's 
awkward mastiff. There was a roguish twinkle in the eye 
of Lily Katy, as she watched him from the window ; but it 
was the only expression she gave to any opinion she might 
have formed of the delicate youth on whom her friends were 
expending their eloquence. 

" And it is all got up for your sake," was the concluding 
point of Miss Amanda Chiffering's discourse ; " they want to 
get acquainted with you." 

However bright Lily Katy's eyes might be, and however 
freely she might use them, she was neither vanity nor amuse- 
ment-proof; and while her little heart went pit-a-pat at 
thought of the honor done her, her head was nearly turned 
with its anticipatory delight. She, however, smoothed down 
her features enough to go through the formality of an intro- 
duction to the blue-eyed collegian, when Robert Chiffering 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 191 

brought him in to tea ; but smiles were constantly gathering 
on her face, and her little fingers were most grievously afflicted 
vnin. a tremor, that seemed to have its origin in her dancing 
eyes. 

How happy was Lily Katy Avhen she went to her pillow 
that night ! and how she wished that everybody could know 
what a fine thing it is to be a school-mistress ! 

The day for the pic-nic came at last, though never a dame 
in Christendom watched " boiling pot " as those hours were 
watched. The day came, and it was a glorious one — a tithe 
too hot, may-be, but it would be only the more delightful in 
the woods, with the breezes wandering about, cooling them- 
selves on the fresh leaves, and the silver-voiced brook sending 
up its healthful breath with its music, to add to the attractions 
of the sylvan dining-room. 

The "big team" — the springless wagon and span of fat 
plough-horses — stood before Farmer Chiffering's door, and 
Katy's foot was resting on the round of the old kitchen chair, 
that was wont to perform the office of carriage-steps, when 
Arthur Truesdail's huggy came whisking around the corner. 
There was a short, embarrassed conference ; and then, not- 
withstanding a deal of amusingly sly hesitation on her part, 
Katy was transferred from the lumber-wagon to a more hon- 
ored seat at the left hand of the fair-haired college youth. 

Oh ! how Lily Katy was envied that morning ! how sim- 
ple-hearted, blush-colored damsels longed for just wisdom 
enough to be school-mistresses ! and how Arthur, and Arthur's 
new frock coat, and 'Arthur's fine turn-out were admired and 
reiidmired I But Katy was not the only object of envy, It 
was certainly no small honor to sit at the right hand of .he 
pretty school-mistress ; and there was a provoking conscious- 
ness in the manner of young Truesdail, which invited rather 
than deprecated envy. Ah ! Katy loas beautiful ! The folds 
of jaconet hung about her lily-o'-the-valley figure like snow 
wreaths ; and her small straw hat, with the bright cluster of 
opening rose-buds resting against its crown, just peeped over 
the flaxen curls enough to catch a glimpse of her sunny eyes; 



192 THE YOUNG DREAM. 

Without overshadowing them in the least. And then that 
most bewitchingly little hand, and the still more bewitchingly 
little foot, neatly cased in glove and gaiter ! Arthur Trues- 
dail had a very charming vision of a horseback ride every 
time he ventured to look down at the little, bird-like looking 
thing peeping from beneath the envious hem ; and all for the 
sake of the half-minute that he might take that wicked brain- 
turner of a foot into his palm, while lifting its owner to the 
saddle. As the buggy rolled up to the front door of an im- 
mense red farm-house, that, but for its size, Would certainly 
have been lost in the luxurious wilderness of lilac-bushes, and 
roses, and hollyhocks surrounding it, a young man broke from 
a be\7^ of red-cheeked girls that stood smiling :n the doorway, 
and hurried to the gate to Avelcome Lily Katy. 

The school-mistress had only time to hear, " My brother 
Philip," and to smile and shake her curls toward a very seri- 
ous-looking face, before she was lifted to the ground and led 
away to the group awaiting her; " my brother Philip " being 
left to care for the horse, while the collegian devoted himself 
to his pretty lady. 

" I wonder what makes him so melancholy-like this gay 
morning," thought Katy, as her eye turned for a momeiit on 
Philip Truesdail ; and when he returned and joined the com- 
pany that was to proceed across the fields to the woods, she 
again looked into his serious face with wonder. It loas 
strange ; and Katy, being too young to believe seriousness ^ 
quite compatible Avith happiness, began to feel very khidly 
toward him, and to shape her sentiments and fashion her 
words with a glance of thought toward him, whatever direc- ■ 
tion her eye might chance to take the while. And Philip ' 
seemed to appreciate her efforts; for he began to smile, and I 
his blue eye grew beautifully dark while looking forth an i 
answer to her bright Avords. It may be that Arthur appre- 
ciated them too, for he placed himself close beside her, and ' 
devoted himself to her so exclusively as to appropriate every 
word and glance. 

'* You must distribute your attentions a little," Katy heard! 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 193 

the elder brother whisper to her cavalier, " or you will offend 
everybody." 

" Confound everybody ! " was the answer; " I will speak 
to those I like, and leave the distributing to you. You can 
play the devoted to one as well as another, Phil; but this 
little lady likes me, and I like her, and we shall have it all 
our own way." 

Saucy enough was the smile that flitted across Lily Katy's 
face at the confident tone of the young collegian ; and a work 
of arch malice sparkled in her eyes when they again fell 
upon him. Arthur Truesdail paid dearly for that one speech; 
but, as his complacency evaporated, his gayety rose ; and so 
the party should have given Lily Katy a vote of thanks. 

And " my brother Philip ? " AVhy, he very nearly forgot 
his own cautionary advice, and scarcely lost sight of Katy 
through the day. Once, the school-mistress found herself 
beside him, away in the depths of the woods, with her feet 
resting on a rich carpet of golden moss ; the flashy brook 
singing and chattering about nothing close before them, and 
the busy trees nodding and whispering above her head, as 
though they knew a great deal more than they chose to tell. 
She found herself there, but how she came there was the 
question ; and why she stood, and stood so contentedly, 
when she knew that her host should be " distributing his 
attentions." 

Philip Truesdail was nearly ten years older than his 
brother, and no match for him in any respect, if the family 
or family's friends, were allowed to be the judges. There 
was a womanly tenderness in his large blue eyes, but they 
received an entirely different expression from the coal-blacl: 
fringes shading them ; so that only those on whom they had 
rested in compassion or affection, read anything there but 
good-natured indifference. His hair, too, was black ; and his 
complexion, except a narrow strip belting the top of the fore- 
head, was of a deep tan color, enriched by the healthful blood 
that had been denied his brother's pale, girlish cheek. There 
was something in the manner of the serious young farmer 
17 



194 THE YOUNG DREAM. 

SO Studiously watchful of her comfort and convenience, so 
entirely unselfish in its devotion, that irresistibly attracted the 
little lady; and his language seemed to her chosen from tlie 
books vi^hich she read and loved the best. That was the rea- 
son why she did not propose returning to the rest of the party, 
when she found they had wandered so much farther than she 
had intended, and that was the reason that, when she heard 
approaching footsteps, she almost unconsciously led the way 
farther on; for voices always assume a different tone when 
they speak to more than one listener. Her quick eye, too, 
had read at a glance enough to interest her sympathies irre- 
vocably on the side of Philip. During the ten minutes that 
she had spent in the house, she saw that his position in the 
family was by no means commensurate with his merits ; and 
this discovery performed almost as great wonders for the un- 
pretending farmer, as the recital of his sufferings and " hair- 
breadth 'scapes " did for the Moor, Othello. Then he was so 
old, and so brotherly ! Alas for Lily Katy ! 

The day went like a sweet dream to the simple-hearted 
girl; and when night came, she had much, very much, to 
■^ememher , but only a little to tell. 

Katy went early to her school-house the next morning, for 
the noisy gayety of the Chifferings seemed of a sudden dis- 
tasteful to her ; and she longed for the stillness of some kind 
of solitude. She was half-way there, when a horse bounded 
from before the door, and dashed up the hill at a furious rate. 
Could Katy have been right ? or was there a vision of yester- 
day yet i-n her eye ? She thought the rider was Philip 
Truesdail. Wondering, and doubting, and guessing, and 
asserting within her own mind, the little school-mistress 
tripped onward, all the time watching the spot where the 
horseman disappeared against the sky. She reached the 
door, and laid her hand upon the latch, her eye still resting 
upon the top of the hill, and there she stood, with her head 
leaned against the door-post, and her hands crossed on her 
bosom, until linsey-woolsey, bare feet, and dinner-baskets 
peering in sight, reminded her that dreaming was not hel 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 195 

whole business. Lily Katy's task, however, looked dull to 
her that morning ; her little people missed their accustomed 
smile ; and she dropped herself into her big chair, with a 
half-formed determination of betaking herself, with her troop 
of noisy tyroes, to green walls and blue roof — a second Plato. 
But what was that lying upon her desk ? Surely none of her 
embryo philosophers could make up such a bouquet ! There 
were bright young rose-buds, the slender green arms in which 
they had so long nestled still clasped about them, as though 
loath to give them up to an untried world, or striving to shield 
them from such robbers as the sun and the breezes ; and pan- 
sies, with their purple eyes full of sweet, loving thought; and 
the magic daisy, spreading abroad its tell-tale petals, as 
though asking to be inquired of; — the dark, glossy green 
of the myrtle threw into beautiful relief the snowy bells of 
the lily, her own cognominal ; and many a delicate flowering 
thing peeped from beneath a sheltering leaf, or sat in state 
upon its own slender stem, like a queen upon her throne. 

Lily Katy took up the beautiful mystery very carefully, and 
turned it over in her hands, and thrust the tips of her taper 
fingers beneath the leaves, to discover all they concealed, and 
wondered and guessed within herself, her lips all the time 
parted with a surprised smile, and a radiant light breaking 
from her blue eyes and spreading itself over her face. But 
why did her cheek crimson and her bosom palpitate ? She 
was thinking over the Thompsons, and the Beltons, and her 
other friends, but was it that she believed her gift came from 
them ? Ah, no ! Lily Katy made a great wonder of the 
matter, even to herself; but there was something whispering 
her all the time the whole and exact truth. In peering 
among the stems, she found a slip of paper, with the words 
" For the lovely ' Lily ' " written upon it, in a round, fair 
hand, that Katy would have been delighted to transfer to her 
copy-books, and that she put carefully away between the 
leaves of her little morocco-covered Testament. 

" The lovely Lily " said not a word to the Chifferings ot 
her mysterious bouquet ; but it could not have been because 



196 THE YOUNG DREAM. ( 

she set too light a value on it; for never lingered life m 
flowers so long as in those. 

That pic-nic party w^as the beginning of a — friendship. 
Days and weeks passed away, and Philip Truesdail and the i 
pretty school-mistress, were to each other, as people said, " like 
brother and sister." And they said, too, that it was very kind ' 
of Phil to give so much of his time to Lily Katy, since his ; 
more showy brother had taken such a violent fancy to romp- |j 
ing Nell ChifFering; though, to be sure, he could not make \ 
up for the loss of Arthur. 

In large towns people are annoyed by conventionalism ; in 
villages by gossip ; but if you would be entirely free, if you 
would act on all occasions precisely as you please, leave ;ill 
" settlements," and go out where it is at least a good half mile 
from hearth-stone to hearlh-stone. Phil Truesdail drove ovci 
to the school-house as often as he listed, and took Katy into 
his buggy, and nobody said a word about it, except " what a 
good young man is Phil." Sometimes he came on horse- 
back, (the buggy being appropriated by his brother Arthur,) 
and then they sat in the school-house together, and read vol- | 
umes of poetry, and perhaps talked poetry, until the moon 
came out; and then those moonlight walks! Nobody said a 
word about them, however. Certainly it was very kind in 
Philip Truesdail to devote himself so exclusively to Lily i| 
Katy ; for his presence saved the poor school-mistress many ' 
a wearisome hour. Oh, yes ! kind, very- — to himself. To ' 
him, this was a strangely sweet intercourse ; he seemed to be 
living and moving in one of those bewitching dreams that 
had haunted him since boyhood. Perhaps there never was 
a man who had reached his five-and-twentieth summer, pre- 
serving the singleness of heart, the simplicity of character, 
and the guileless purity that marked this friend of Lily Katy. 
Born with an eye for seeing and a heart for feeling, he had '' 
exercised both within the precincts of " Crow Hill ;" and so » 
every plant was known and loved, every pebble had a familiar J 
.ook to him, every ripple, every murmuring breeze, and every ^ 
Bweet feathered thing, spoke a language that he could per-. 






THE YOUNG DREAM. 197 

fectly understand. He gathered lessons of philosophy from 
the field, and poetry from the woodland ; then he read of them 
in books, his own heart being the crucible in which the melal 
was tried, and appropriating only the pure gold. He found 
his companions and friends where he guided the plough and 
wielded the sickle ; and it was seldom that he mingled with 
human beings, for there was something in their rude tones 
that jarred upon the refined harmony of his spirit. But there 
was no discord in the voice or sentiments of Lily Katy ; for 
she had just begun life, and her nature was full of the ro- 
mance of its morning. The chivalrous devotion of Philip 
Truesdail had a witchery about it, that, young as she was, 
she more than half suspected would one day be lost ; and it 
was this single grain of worldly wisdom, mingling with the 
enthusiasm of girlish fourteen, that induced Lily Katy to shut 
her eyes resolutely upon everything lending to break the 
charm. But yet, good and gentle as Katy was, there was a 
single vein of coquetry (innocent, pleasing coquetry to any- 
body but Philip Truesdail) about her, which originated many 
a shadow. 

Katy was in the garden at Crow Hill, (for old Farmer 
Truesdail had daughters whom the school-mistress sometimes 
visited,) and Philip, as usual, was beside her. He had plaited 
a wreath, and she stood smilingly, like a pet lamb, while he 
adjusted it among her light, silken curls ; but when he 
picked, in a marked manner, a rose-bud, and, touching it to 
his lips, was about adding it to the fragrant tiara, she shook 
it gayly from her head and placed her foot upon it. 

" Nay, nay, cousin Phil," (Katy always used the con- 
venient prefix,) " you will spoil my head-dress with these 
hea^y additions ; and I dare say you have made me look 
like a fright now — hav'n't you ?" 

Katy did not note the expression — half of chagrin, half 
of involuntary pain — with which her companion turned to 
another topic ; and neither did he note her hand soon after 
creeping down among the grass, to recover the rejected sym- 
bol of what had never been spoken 
17* 



198 THE YOTTNCx DREAM. 

Speedily passed the summer ; the mellow autumn opened, 
and Philip Truesdail was no more the declared lover of his 
Lily than on the first day they met. But his tongue could 
have paid little in comparison with what the fair maiden had 
been told a thousand times, in more eloquent language. And 
she understood it all, and thought it then sufficient. What 
need was there that Katy should grow wiser ? 

They met for the last time on such terms — the pretty 
school-mistress and her adopted cousin. 

" And you will go back to your gay village, and forget this 
place that you have made such a heaven to me, and perhaps 
laugh at the rude farmer that has dared to — to call you ' 
cousin, Katy." 

Lily Katy shook her head. 

" You will take the light from my heart, Katy, when you 
go away ; and there will be no melodious sound for my ear, 
because your voice will be making music for others ; and no 
sight to charm my eye, because your eye will be away, and 
cannot look on to give it its coloring. Oh, Katy ! I shall be 
doubly lonely when you are gone ! " 

There was a dewiness in the young girl's eye, as she 
turned it upon the murmurer. 

" You will have the woods, cousin Philip, and the brook 
that we have sat beside, and the lilies that you planted in the ' 
corner of the garden, because, you said, they were like me, ! 
and the rose-bushes that I helped you to trim, and the room 
where we have read so many beautiful things together, and 
all the places where we have been — you will have them all. 
You should not complain, cousin Philip." 

" And would you take any of them from me — would you 
have them yours, if you could, dear Katy ? " 

"Perhaps — perhaps — um!"and Katy looked upas mis- 
chievously as her quivering lip would let her. 

" I would give you one for a remembrancer, if you could 
take it away, but it would be a hard thing for me to spare 
more." 

"And I do not need the remembrancer, Cousin Philip; 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 199 

my memory never requires jogging where my friends are 
concerned. But let us change the subject, — we are getting 
mopish." 

" It is our last evening, dear Katy — I have never troubled 
you by talking about myself much, but now — " 
And do not now, Phil — pray don't." 

" Is it such a very disagreeable subject, then ? " 

" No, no ! it is too — I mean it is of course interesting, but 
—there will be time for all that, cousin when you come to 
Peltonville." 

" And inay I come, Katy ? " inquired the young man with 
a kindling eye, and holding back his breath to catch the an- 
swer. 

" May you ! " returned the little lady, laughing ; " you do 
not suppose we are so inhospitable as to shut the door upon 
our cousins. But maybe you will not wish to come, and in 
that case I shall not urge you — eh, Cousin Phil?" 

" God bless you, Katy ! If I could only know that we 
shall meet as we part now ! " 

A shadow passed over the clear young brow of Lily Katy ; 
it must have been a foreboding of evil, for she replied almost 
mournfully 

" People never meet as they part, Philip ; and for one, I 
wish there was no such thing as parting." 
• The young man's eye brightened. 

" And would you be content at — where you have spent the 
summer, dear Katy ? " 

" I could not find a better place." 

" And in such company?" 

" Company makes places — nay, Cousin Phil, do not thank 
me too warmly I have had a variety of company, you 
know." 

The young man turned away with an air of disappointment. 

" Come back, Philip, come back, and take that curl out of 
your lip ; and, since you are bent on making me say silly 
things first hear me. The company of my good cousin, 



200 THE YOUNG DREAM. 

Philip Truesdail, is all that would keep me from Peltonville 
Are you satisfied ? " 

The young man seized the small hand that was raised to 
urge his return, and pressed it hastily to his lips, then dropped 
it by her side, and stood back a moment to look into her crim- 
soned face ; finally, advancing resolutely, he bent his lips to 
her ear, and whispered the few heart-warm words that came 
to them involuntarily. 

" I am a little girl, only a little girl — you must not talk to 
me so, Cousin Phil," stammered Katy ; " when I am older — " 

" Will you love me then, dear Katy ?" 

"I — I do not know. Don't get angry again, Philip ! don't ! 
I love you now — with all my heart — and will forever and 
ever. Now make the most of that, and let go my hand, for 
I must go into the house this very minute." 

Young Truesdail would have been better pleased had the 
little lady spoken less pettishly ; and he resigned the hand, 
and turned homeward, with an air that made Lily Katy ex- 
ceedingly sorry for what she began now to consider her folly. 
She looked it all in her sweet, childish face, as she placed her 
hand gently within his, and whispered, -' I will stay as long 
as you wish, Philip," 

The face of the young farmer lighted up with joy ; for the 
first time, he drew the simple girl to his heart ; for the first 
time, their lips met, and then they sat down on the mossed 
bank together, and spent two golden hours as hours were 
never spent by them before. When the moon went down, 
hand in hand they proceeded homeward, and parted on .the 
door-stone of the Chifferings, with vows of everlasting change- 
lessness. 

Lily Katy awoke next morning with a confused recollection 
of mingled pleasure and mortification, for which she could 
not at first account. But in the next moment a crimson blush 
overspread her face ; and she nestled down, and closed her 
eyes feigning sleep, for the sake of being left to her own 
thoughts. That she was happy could not be denied ; but 
with her sense of happiness came the mortifying suspicior^ 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 201 

i that she had been won too easily. So there she lay, her 
pretty face half buried in the pillow, and the other half 
covered by her small hand, and revolved in her mind every 
word that had been uttered on the previous evening, until she 
satisfied herself that she had acted a very unmaidenly part ; 
and, moreover, that Philip Truesdail ought to be punished 
for leading her into such folly. How dignified she would be 
when she next met him ! 

During this summer, so important to Lily Katy, Mr. Fol- 
lansbe's devotion to his country had been rewarded by the 
gift of the office of county clerk; and it was thought that bis 
salary, united with his lady's economy, would be sufficient for 
the support of his family. But the accession of tJie needful 
was nothing in comparison with the accession of consequence. 
Now the FoUansbes were invited everywhere, and everybody 
was proud of their acquaintance ; and Lily Katy was too 
beautiful not to receive a due share of this newly awakened 
homage. But did the little belle forget her farmer lover ? 
Not she. Not a buggy-wagon stopped at her father's door 
but her heart fluttered like a newly caged bird ; but it was a 
fortnight, a long, long fortnight, before the- right buggy made 
its appearance. Katy saw it from an upper window, and 
clapped her little hands with delight. In a moment she was 
called down, but she must needs wait to dissipate the tell-tale 
blushes, and send the smiles back t''rom her face to her heart ; 
and she must not tremble, not in the least, for she had resolved 
on oehavino with a great deal of propriety this time. 

While Katy stood before her glass smoothing down her 
features to a proper degree of demureness, Philip Truesdail 
sat bolt upright in the room below, almost dreading to hear 
the well-known sound of her foot ; wondering how he could 
have been so foolish as to stake his happiness on such a des- 
perate throw, and resolving to tell the child at once that he 
considered her in no wise bound by words which her gener- 
osity might have prompted her to utter at a moment when she 
had no time for thought. 

"With such reflections on either side, is it strange that they 



202 THE YOUNG DKEAM. 

met coldly ? that misunderstanding followed misunderstand 
ing? that Katy was unreasonably exacting, though every 
Avord she uttered warred against her heart ? and that Philip 
Truesdail was generous and self-denying, as he had always 
been, and disdained to follow up any advantage which he 
might have gained on that memorable moonlight evening ? 
Five minutes of entire confidence on both sides would have 
set all right ; but a word unspoken often causes a life-es- 
trangement. And so, is it strange that Philip Truesdail and 
Lily Katy parted that night forever ? 

"Forever — forever !" sobbed the poor girl, as she flung 
herself on the sofa, even before the echo of her light, merry 
laugh had died on the air. 

It was years before that mocking laugh died in the ears of 
Philip Truesdail. 

"Forever — forever!" repeated Lily Katy, and then she 
promised herself that it would not be so ; he would come 
back — she knew Philip Truesdail too well to believe he 
would leave her to such misery — he was so kind, so con- 
siderate, so true-hearted, and so forgiving — then a fresh burst 
of tears interrupted her comforting reflections. 

The next morning, Lily Katy could not forbear telling her 
mother how miserable she was ; but all the consolation she 
received was commendation for the good sense both evinced 
in parting so amicably And so Katy had her trials to bear 
all alone. How she watched for that little buggy till the 
snow came ! and then, how she sat by the window, and 
looked along the road, and wondered if she should know 
Philip Truesdail from the top of the hill in his winter dress. 
But no Philip Truesdail came, and spring found Lily Katy 
still watching. By this time, the fragile child had shot up 
into a tall, womanly looking maiden, and there were but few 
that called her Lily Katy now. It would have required a 
very superb lily to bear any resemblance to the bloommg, 
beautiful Catharine Follansbe. But the lady's heart went 
back, like the dove to its resting place ; and, though fast en- 
tering on her belle-ship, she would have given worlds, had 



THE YOUNG DREAM. 203 

worlds been in her gift, to have lived over again her four- 
teenth summer. Still, however, she be'ieved that Philip 
Truesdail would return; but return he never did. 

Years passed, and Mr. FoUansbe rose from a county office- 
holder to the state legislature, and from a legislator to a repre- 
sentative ; and simple Lily Kaly was merged in the elegant 
and fashionable Miss Follansbe. And was Philip Truesdail 
remembered still ? Perhaps. Those soft blue eyes flashed 
now with pride and spirit, the delicate lip curled sometimes 
with scorn, and the beautifully curved neck arched itself like 
that of a tropical bird conscious of its own matchless charms ; 
even the voice, with its smooth, measured cadences, sounded 
not like the low, warbling tones of Lily Katy ; and, in place 
of simplicity and artless sentiment, came words of wit and 
sometimes of wisdom. Did this elegant creature, delicate 
and fastidious as she was, ever give a thought to the sober- 
faced farmer jogging after his plough behind the red farm- 
house on Crow Hill ? and was that the reason why she turned 
so coldly from her crowd of suitors, and called herself still 
heart-whole ? No. She never thought of the rude farmer, 
earning his bread by the sweat of his brow ; but there was 
away in her heart of hearts an ideal image that always stole 
away the point from any arrow that the winged god might 
send thither. This image was originally that of Philip 
Truesdail; but she had so renewed and moulded it over, that 
it now bore no resemblance to its former self. Who could 
have believed that the gay, heartless Miss Follansbe Avas 
cherishing a deathless affection ? Who would believe that 
half the world are doing so, even while they laugh at truth 
and faith ? 

Miss Follansbe was entering on her four-?nd-twentielh 
spring when she went to spend the green season at her old 
home of Peltonville. Her smile was eagerly courted, and a 
nod, even, was considered worth a deal of Scrambling; but 
still people had their remarks to make. The milliner, the 
grocer, and the tavern-keeper's wife, all said she had grown 
shamefully aristocratic ; and old Mrs. Hudson winked her 



204 



THE YOUNG DREAM 



liltle black eyes very meaningly, as she intimated to every- 
body that she had seen the time when the Follansbes were 
no better than their neighbors. But the proud lady minded 
none of these things. The deeper the murmurs, the more 
cause she gave for murmuring. She had been at Peltonville 
but a few weeks, when she began to feel an earnest desire to 
visit the scene of her first and only school-teaching. She 
had not seen it since the bright autumn day on which she left 
— and why? She could have told why; but no one else 
would have dreamed it. Now she would see if the little 
sacred spots she had cherished in memory were the same ; 
and so she went. She recollected perfectly well that the old 
school-house was small and dirty, and of a weather-painted 
brown ; but she could scarce believe it could have been so 
small, and so dirty, and so brown, ten years before. As for 
the children, she was confident that she had never Avatched 
over and loved such ill-looking ragamuffins as they were. 
And certainly there could have been no resemblance between 
the awkward, narrow-browed, square-shouldered country girl, 
with the shrill tenor voice, that occupied the chair, and her 
former self. But the dingle behind the school-house ! the 
dear old woods that pictured themselves on her inward eye 
just as she had left them! — ah! change had been there. 
Not a tree was standing. Was it a tear that trembled on the 
dark lashes of Miss Follansbe ? If so, it stood there but a 
moment, though she did not smile till she had left the school- 
house behind the hill. The young Chifferings were married, 
and the old people lived with their eldest son ; the Beltons 
nad moved away, and the Thompsons were dead, except an 
o'lu woTian that went out sewing by the day. Miss Follans- 
be went on, and without any settled purpose she directed the 
driver to Cro\'' Hill. Perhaps she would go past — perhaps 
she would call. She had heard that the old people were 
dead, and the place was in the possession of Philip Truesdail 
and one unmarked sister. The lady's heart beat most un- 
mercifully agaiht her boddice, as the red farm-house hove in 
sight; and she\allowed her carriage to go a quarter of a mile 
beyofid before sfie could muster courage to give the necessary 

/ 



THE YOUNG DllEAM. 205 

order. Then the horses' heads were turned, and, in a moment 
she alighted at the door where she had first seen Philip Trues- 
dail. But little change had been there ; and slowly she walked 
up the narrow path between the rose-bushes, and tried to im- 
agine herself Lily Katy, in the first freshness of beautiful 
girlhood. Lightly, and almost timidly, she tapped at the 
door, then more heavily, and then she substituted her parasol 
for her knuckles ; but no answer came. Raising the latch, 
she stepped over the threshold, and found herself in the well- 
remembered parlor. There, nothing was changed, not even 
the position of a chair. The mantel-clock was ticking as of 
yore, and the old-fashioned vases stood on either side of it 
with- just such flowers in them as she had first received from 
Philip Truesdail. He had, of course, arranged them that 
morning, and Miss Follansbe blushed to find herself appropri- 
ating one of the prettiest; but with a tremor in her fingers, she 
fastened it in her boddice. She took a book from the table. 
It was the same she had read with him many a time, and 
there were traces of her own pencil on it, and, between the 
leaves, for a mark, a bit of riband that she recollected clipping 
one evening from her breast-knot. What would not the ele- 
gant lady have given to be simple Lily Katy once more. Oh, 
how many a heart-ache is wrapped up in the refinements of 
fashionable society, and the flippant follies of worldly wisdom t 
Satisfied that no one was in the house. Miss Follansbe pro- 
ceeded to the garden. How came back every word that had 
been spoken there !-^ every look, every light pressure of the 
hand ; much that she did not rightly receive at the time, and 
much more that she did not rightly comprehend. And Miss 
Follansbe \vished that she had been born in that neighborhood, 
and never " looked beyond the visual line that girt it round." 
But still her lip remained firm and her eye unmoistened till 
she came to the little cluster of lilies, carefully Aveeded and 
that morning watered, that Philip Truesdail had planted there 
because they looked like her, while she stood by, and laugh- 
ingly tried to lift the spade that seemed such a toy in his 
hands. Then her calmness gave way, her dignity, all was 
18 



206 THE YOUNG DREAM. 

gone ; and Miss Follansbe leaned against the cherry-tree, by 
which she stood, and wept as she had scarce done since 
childhood, A rustUng of the leaves startled her, and she 
wiped the traces of tears from her face, and turned with her 
usual self-possessed air to the intruder. A dark-complexioned 
woman, with her hair blown over her face, and a basket of 
cowslips on her arm, stood among the shrubbery, shading her 
eyes with her large, bony hand, and peering earnestly down 
into the garden. This should not have been the sister of 
Philip Truesdail, but Miss Follansbe recognized her as such 
immediately, and half of her touching recollections were dis- 
sipated. The lady introduced herself at once, and then suck: 
chattering, and such wondering! Miss Truesdail insisted on>. 
blowing the horn to call her brother from the field; and,] 
though the lady said nay, she said it so faintly that the signal j 
was given. It would be saying too much for Miss Follansbe's' 
self-control not to own that her heart bounded, and her color 
went and came like a bashful school-girl's at the prospect of, 
meeting her early lover, face to face, after the- lapse of ten 
years. And when Miss Truesdail exclaimed, "There he 
comes I " it was some minutes before she ventured to turn her 
eyes in the direction designated. But when she did ! Miss 
Follansbe could scarce credit the evidence of her senses ; she 
could not suppress a smile. With a.n old torn straw hat in 
one hand, and the other supporting a hoe upon the shoulder 
of his striped frock, his figure stooping, and his eye fixed 
upon the ground, walked the man that Miss Truesdail had 
called her brother. He might have been mistaken for her 
father, and she was anything but youthful. Miss Follansbe 
thought of the flowers in the parlor, and the carefully trimmed 
shrubbery, and tried to argue herself into receiving her old 
lover as what he really was, rather than as what he appeared. 
He started when he heard the lady's name, and a quick flush 
passed over his face ; but it was gone in a moment, and he 
sat down at a respectful distance, and conversed calmly and 
sensibly, without apparently once remembering that they had 
ever met before. And a stranger would have thought they 
never had, till Miss Truesdail made mention of the fact. 



THE yOUNG DREAM. 207 

' You wouldn't have known Miss Follansbe, Philip?" 

The man looked up. 

" She is very much changed." 

" There is n't much left like Lily Katy," pursued the spin- 
Bter, unconscious of the recollections she was awakening. 

Her auditors were both silent. 

'•"But Philip is quite the same — some people never do 
change — I don't see as he is altered in the least from what 
he was ten years ago — do you, Miss Follansbe?" 

•' Not in the least," echoed Miss Follansbe, with a demure 
look, which might be attributed either to the command she 
had obtained over the muscles of her face, or to a strange 
absence of mind. 

There was a proud flash in Philip Truesdail's eye, as he 
turned it for the first tim.e full on the metamorphosed school- 
mistress. 

" Nay, lady," he answered, " even your system, the rules 
that govern you in the gay world, require not this sacrifice of 
truth. Say that I am changed. Why should I not be, as 
well as yourself? My shoulders are bent, my hair is grizzled, 
my features are sharp, and there are wrinkles on my fore- 
head ; but that is not all — I am changed more than that, and 
from this hour more than ever. But these are trifling things 
to you, Miss Follansbe." 

It was strange with what ease Philip Truesdail turned to 
other subjects, and with what fluency he conversed, prevent- 
ing the possibility of his sister's introducing topics more per- 
sonal. In a half hour Miss Follansbe was handed into her 
carriage by the bachelor farmer ; and, while she leaned her 
bead on her hand, and mused over the strange inconsistency 
of her own character, Philip Truesdail went whistling back 
to his labor. Neither was happy and neither was sad ; both 
were in a state of discomfort. They had been awakened from 
a long cherished dream, and the last spark of romance was 
extinguished in the bosoms of both. 

And so Miss Follansbe went back to the world again ; and 
Philip Truesdail to his plough and his flowers, and his sim- 
plicity. 



208 



THE BANK NOTE. 

" A PINK barege, with tucks — or a flounce — no ! I like 
tu:ks better; let me think — how many ? Half a dozen 4ittle- 
ones look fixed up ; one deep one, doubling the whole skirt,: 
is very suitable for mamma, but it would be rather too heavy, 
too dignified for me ; then two of moderate size — oh ! they 
are so common! Never mind! Madam Dufraneau shall 
decide that matter. But I will have the dress, at any rate, 
and it shall be pink — just the palest and most delicate in the 
world — but pink it shall be, because of my dark eyes and 
hair, and fair complexion." 

So soliloquized pretty Rosa Warner, a good-natured, 
thoughtless miss, of some thirteen summers, whose only 
troublous reflection was occasioned by the distance of bright 
sixteen, when her mother had promised she should be allowed 
to abolish short dresses, and gather up her jetty curls into a 
comb. And this would, indeed, be quite an era in the life 
of the little lady; — for she had no small pretensions to beauty, 
and was, moreover, the only child of a very wealthy father 
and a very fashionable mother. Oh ! what visions she had : 
of the future ! 

" Yes, I will have the pink barege," repeated Miss Rosa; 
and taking another peep at the mirror, to see that her dress 
would fully bear the scrutiny of her mother's critical eye, she 
tripped gayly down stairs, reached the landing with a light 
bound, and then, smoothing her features and her hair at the 
same time, placed her hand very demurely on the knob of 
the breakfast-room doer. Her mother was there before her, 
and Rosa heard her say, as she entered, *' I have no occa- 
sion for employing a stranger." 

These words were addressed to a pale, thin girl, who stood 
just inside the door, with her head bent down, and the fingers 
of her ungloved hand trembling on the back of a chair before 
her. 



THE BANK NOTE. 209 

Perhaps," returned the girl, half hesitatingly, " perhaps 
you employ need work less than I." 

" 1 doubt it," returned Mrs. Warner ; " a seamstress always 
needs work, and those whom I have tried, and know to be 
deserving, I esteem it my duty to give the preference to. 
There is sewing enough to be done, and no one who can use 
the needle skilfully need long go begging for work." 

A sensation as of choking seemed struggling in the throat 
of the girl, and her fingers now clutched convulsively at the 
chair. 

" I hope you may succeed in obtaining employment," ob- 
served Mrs. Warner, consolingly ; " but really — " 

" If you would but try me, lady !" sobbed the girl. " We 
are very poor — God knows if we shall starve!" she mur- 
mured, "and my poor, poor mother!" 

Mrs. Warner did not hear the last words, for Rosa, not- 
wilhstanding her habitual fear of her mother, had glided up 
to her, and whispered " that Mary Jones could not come for 
a week, at least, and Alice Weaver was really to be married 
in a fortnight." This information induced Mrs. Warner to 
look again at the girl who stood trembling before her. 

" Your name I think you gave as Ellen Vaughn ? " 

"Yes, ma'am." 

" And you live on S street ? " 

"We live there now." 

" Can you make dresses ?" 

"Not well; I should not like to try." 

" What can you do ? " 

"Almost every kind of needle-work — fancy and plain." 

"Embroidery?" asked Mrs. Warner, with an incredulous 
smile. 

" Yes, ma'am." 

" And can you do nothing with dresses ? " 

"Not nice ones." 

" Could you put together a morning govm after it was 
fitted?" 

"Oh yes!" 

18* 



210 THE BANK NOTE. 

" And make school-dresses for my daughter ?" 

" I have done it for others." 

" For whom have you worked ?" 

"For no one in INew York, lady. We left a country vil- 
lage, a few weeks ago, thinking we should do better here ; 
but it was all a mistake. There is a great deal of work in 
the city, I dare say, but there are so many hands to do it. 
Oh ! I am very sorry we came ! " sighed Ellen Vaughn, shak- 
ing her head slowly. 

"It is a common mistake," observed Mrs. Warner; "peo- 
ple seldom ' let well alone.' " 

The girl opened her lips as though to reply, but was 
checked by a "second thought." Mrs. Warner seemed con- 
sidering the subject a moment, and finally she decided. " I 
will employ you to-day, at least. Eosa, show Miss Vaughn 
to the back sitting-room, and give her the skirt of your mus- 
lin dress ; I will see her before that is done." 

Rosa obeyed; and the girl, turning back and hesitating for 
a moment, as though there had been something more she 
would have asked if she dared, slowly followed. 

Mrs. Warner, as we have before said, was a very fashion- 
able lady ; yet she possessed more real feeling, more heart 
and soul, if one could only find the way to it, than would 
serve a whole clique of the ordinary stamp of fashionables. 
But there was one marked peculiarity about Mrs. Warner's 
feeling ; it was not only capricious, but it would not be led. 
She was quick and ardent if left to her own impulses, but 
where others felt the most deeply, she manifested a strange 
obtuS'3ness ; and when she had reason to believe that people 
thought she ought to be affected, she was cold and calm as a 
winter moonlight. Yet but few persons could have had the 
hardihood to say that Mrs. Warner was whimsical. She 
was so evidently governed, even in her eccentricities, by high 
moral principle ; there was so much that was noble and gen- 
erous in her nature ; and her personal presence was so im- 
posing, that, between her pride and her finer qualities, she 
was generally too much feared and loved to be considered 



THE BANK NOTE. 211 

a proper subject for the dissecting knife of gossips. Mrs 
"Warner owed her entire amount of peculiarities to a strong 
I will that had never been checked, and a full consciousness of 
[ her own powers, both natural and social, slightly modified by 
I conventionalism, and rendered fitful by occasional visitations 
' of worldly wisdom. A more impulsive creature than she Avas 
in childhood never existed ; but, on mingling with the world, 
it had been her misfortune to meet with imposition oftener 
than gratitude. It was thus that she had learned a kind of 
suspicion, which frequently made her unjust ; and it was not 
unusual for her to say and do things worthy of the most iron- 
hearted. In her family she was kind, but authoritative ; and 
neither Rosa, nor the two cousins dwelling under the roof 
with her, thought it by any means a minor matter to encoun- 
i. ter her frown. And, if truth must be told, it was no pleasant 
L thought to Mr. Warner that he had incurred his lady's dis- 
|! pleasure. To be sure she was no virago ; she never raised 
[i her voice high, nor did she ever murmur or chide him. 
r. These are the resorts of weakness. But there was something 
I in the fiery flash of that big black eye, in the curl of the short 
!• upper lip, in the deliberate straightening up of the fine Gre- 
I cian figure — and the biting sarcasm of the single sentence, (she 
I' never deigned to utter more,) dropping with such bitterness 
from lips that could smile most sweetly, which any man would 
gladly avoid. 

Rosa Warner accompanied the seamstress to the room des- 
I' ignated, without speaking a word ; for her gayety felt itself 
rebuked in the presence of sorrow, and the easy, merry- 
hearted child grew timid and thoughtful. She took with a very 
gentle hand the girl's bonnet, and selected the easiest chair, 
and brought an ottoman for her feet ; and then she adjusted 
the shutters with unusual care, and looked about to see that 
the room was pleasant as well as comfortable, before she 
brought the work as directed by her mother. 

" You will find the sewing very light, Miss Vaughn," she 
said, kindly, on presenting it, " and you need make no haste ; 
it will be a good many days before I need the dress." And, 



212 THE BANK NOTE. 

without waiting a reply, she slipped out of the room, and 
made her way down to the breakfast table. 

" Poor girl ! " thought Rosa Warner, as she went, " she 
must be very unhappy. Her eyes look as though she had 
cried a week. I never could bear tears, they make a simple- 1 
ton of me. Dear! dear! how I should hate to be a sewing 
girl, particularly for mamma; her eyes would scare me into 
doing everything wrong. What fine eyes mamma hasJ 
though ! I hope mine will be like them; they are almost as; 
dark now, but they cannot flash so. I think mamma would 
make a better queen than Victoria. Cousin Will called her' 
a complete Zenobia. That I should let Will know what a' 
fool I am ! I declare, there is no use at all in studying his- 
tory at school — one never knows anything about it." 

Rosa had proceeded so far in her soliloquy, when thef 
thought of the pink barege entered her giddy little head, and 
immediately every other thought left it. She even forgot to 
say good morning to her father and cousins ; a neglect of 
proper etiquette for which she was duly reproved. 

Mrs. Warner was not in a very good humor this morning ; 
a state of feeling to which the information that had induced 
her to engage the seamstress contributed not a little ; for it 
annoyed her exceedingly to find that Mary Jones and Alice i 
Weaver had presumed to exhibit so much independence. 
What right had Mary Jones to engage work of other people 
until quite sure that Mrs. Warner did not want her, when she i 
owed the ability to obtain work at all, to that lady's influence? ' 
And what right had Alice Weaver to be married, just as she 
had learned to support herself handsomely ? She would 
without doubt, tie herself to some miserable fellow who could 
not take care of himself, and then would come the old story 
of a suffering family. It was vexatious that people whom ; 
Mrs. Warner had obliged, would not submit themselves en- 
tirely to her guidance ; consent to become automata in her 
hands, and find their happiness in the pursuits which she 
decided ought to make them happy. It was this perverse- 
ness, which would now and then exhibit itself, in spite of the 



THE BANK NOTE. 213 

general empire enjoyed by Mrs. Wamer, that had this morn- 
ing vexed and annoyed her; and a great share of this vexa- 
tion was likely to fall on the head of the new seamstress, for 
the reason that the old ones had, in the lady's view of the 
subject, exhibited a strange lack of gratitude. In short, Mrs. 
Warner had donned a new fit of worldly wisdom, and poor 
Ellen Vaughn, would, probably, suffer from it. 

Full of the pink barege, as soon as breakfast was over, 
Rosa had a long, and confidential communication with her 
father. He was not difficult of persuasion ; and, though he 
rallied her a little on her extravagance, and platjed off for the 
sake of listening to her pretty arguments, he at last put the 
money into her hand, and referred her to her mother. This 
was much the most delicate part of the negotiation ; for, 
though Rosa was seldom denied a gratification of this charac- 
ter, and felt now pretty confident as to the result, yet she stood 
too much in awe of her mother to feel much pleasure in ask- 
ing a favor. Notwithstanding, when the favor was granted, 
she always wondered that she ever could have hesitated. 
Now, however, she was as much astonished by a prompt 
negative, as her lady mother was at her vanity and presump- 
tion ; and she put the money back into her father's hand with 
a sigh, which went to the good man's heart. Rosa did not 
pay much attention to Ellen Vaughn that day, for she was 
sure that no trials could equal her own ; and she was quite 
disgusted that any one who had not missed the chance of 
having a pink barege frock, should presume to be miserable. 
As evening drew near, however, a morning twilight began 
gradually to soften down the shadows on the face of Miss 
Rosa, and she did at last emerge from the clouds sufficiently 
to bestow one thought on poor Ellen Vaughn. It was as she 
stood by the door, bonnet in hand, fingers fidgeting with the 
latch, and the toe of her well worn shoe digging into the 
carpet. 

" You may come again in the morning, if you wish," said 
Mrs. "Warner, " as early as eight, recollect, and if you do as 
well as you have to-day — " 



214 THE BANK NOTE. 

The lady checked herself before the promise of patronage 
was made; for, visions of the ungrateful Mary Jones and 
Alice Weaver passed before her mind's eye, and recalled, in 
a trice, all her worldly wisdom. 

" Please, madam," stammered Ellen Vaughn, after waitino 
a little for the conclusion of the sentence ; and then she rat- 
tled the door-latch, and dug her toe into the carpet more in 
c ustriously than ever. 

At another time Mrs. Warner would have encouraged the 
poor girl to speak on, but now she was in one of her unrea- 
sonably severe moods; so she only fixed her black eye (in- 
tensely and burningly black it was) on her in silence. Elkn 
quailed under it; and, as she did so, the short upper lif 
began to curl ; for Mrs. Warner is not the first individual whc 
has mistaken confusion of manner, arising from timidity oi 
trouble, for the evidence of conscious guiltiness. The pom 
girl seemed ready to sink to the floor, from excess of agita- 
tion ; but at last, making a desperate effort, she faltered out. 
. " if you would only let me take the work home, lady ! " 

" Take it home?" 

*' My mother is sick, and — " 

" Very sick ? " 

" I hope not dangerously — indeed, I do not know — " 

" You have no physician, then ?" 

" No, lady, the poor cannot always — " 

"The poor will receive the kindness they merit; this is 
not a country where the poor will be allowed to suffer, unless 
they bring suffering on themselves." 

" Ah ! lady — " began Ellen Vaughn, but Mrs. Warner's 
eye rested on her with such a look of cold inquiry, that she 
could not finish. 

" Have you sisters. Miss Vaughn?" 

" Two little girls — the eldest only seven." 

" Are you afraid- to leave your mother Avith them ? " 

" N — n — ! it is not so pleasant for her — " 

*' But it is better for her, and for you too. Here you have 



THE BANK NOTE. 215 

a pleasant room, and nothing to disturb you ; but if you were 
, there, you would have your attention constantly distracted." 

I" Oh ! I would do as much ! I am sure I could have — " 
" Nobody can do two things at a time, and do them both 
'': well ; and I should not dare trust my work with you under 
such circumstances ;" and Mrs. Warner turned away, as 
though she considered the matter decided. Ellen Vaughn 
waited for a moment, as though unwilling to let the subject 
drop, and Rosa longed to interfere in her favor ; but neither 
had the courage to speak, and so the youngs girl turned lin- 
geringly from the door. 

" I do not like that girl's face," observed Mrs. Warner ; 
•' she has a downcast look, and a sly, hesitating manner, that 
shows she has something to conceal. Give me a frank, open 
countenance ; there is always hope for such people." 

Rosa wanted to say that a downcast heart, might be the 

occasion of a downcast look ; but she knew that her mother 

' considered her physiognomical observations (as indeed who 

' does not ?) infallible ; and she obeyed the dictates of prudence. 

In the morning, Ellen Vaughn again made her appearance, 

but paler and sadder even than on the day previous ; and this 

day Rosa lingered pityingly around her, longing to ask the 

cause of her sadness, but restrained, in part by timidity, in 

part by delicacy. 

" If she would only tell, perhaps I could do something for 
her," thought the sympathizing child ; but to ask her to tell, 
required more courage than good-natured little Rosa Warner 
could muster. 
1 " That girl will worry my life away," exclaimed Mrs. 
i Warner, in positive ill-humor, after Ellen Vaughn had com- 
pleted her second day. " Her whining and teazing are too 
much to bear ! " 

Rosa and her two cousins dropped book and pencil and 
looked up inquiringly. 

" She insists on having her pay every evening, and her 
stammering and whining are really provoking." 



216 THE BANK NOTE. 

" Would it be inconvenient to pay her every evening 
mamma?" Eosa ventured to inquire. 

" Inconvenient ! why it would be a positive injury to her, 
She would spend the money, as such people always do, as 
fast as she got it." 

The heart, with the fresh, pure dew of its morning upon it 
is much wiser than any head ; and simple, artless Eosa 
Warner, in the sight of angels, was this evening far nearci 
the " hid treasure " than was her shrewd, honored lady moth- 
er. But Eosa could not gather courage to say to her motlier 
that Ellen Vaughn might need, the money as fast as she 
earned it, or faster ; that her stammering was occasioned hy 
timidity, which none better than Mrs. Warner could inspire : 
and that in reality she had a right to demand her honest 
wages when she chose. No I No ! Eosa would sooner have 
encountered a fiery dragon than the glance of those black 
eyes, after she had presumed to intimate that there was a bare 
possibility of her mother's having come to a hasty conclusion. 
So Eosa was silent ; but she resolved in secret to win the 
confidence of the poor seamstress the next day. 

There was a haggard look, and a harassed, almost wild 
expression, on the countenance of Ellen Vaughn, when she 
took her seat in the little sitting-room in the morning, which 
i\Irs. Warner herself observed. The lady even condescended, 
notwithstanding her firmly fixed opinion of the young girl's 
uMworthiness, to make some kind inquiries ; but there is a 
spirit, even in the gentlest natures, which will not be pressed 
too far, and the feelings of resentment swelling in the bosom 
of poor Ellen Vaughn, were more in accordance with her par- 
tial views of Mrs. Warner's injustice, than with her meek, 
forbearing, uncomplaining disposition. She answered her 
questions in cold monosyllables, and, raising her work that 
her employer might not note the misery that would make 
itself visible in her face, she plied her needle with nervous, 
earnestness. 'As for Eosa, she stood aghast at such a display 
of ill-nature in one who had so warmly enlisted her sympa- 
tjiies ; and she revolved the subject in her mind all day, com . 



THE BANK NOTE. 217 

iiiL[ 10 the conclusion at night, which she had seldom doubted 
— tliat her mother was always right. But, notwithstanding 
all this, her heart yet pleaded strongly in favor of poor Ellen 
Vaughn. 

Thus passed another day, and Rosa had as yet made no 
advances tow:ards gaining the confidence of the seamstress. 
About the hour, however, when the latter usually took her 
leave, a bright thought somehow found its way into the 
u^^ually unthinking head of the little lady. She suddenly 
remembered that it was the most common thing in the world 
to inquire for the sick, and this might lead to a full revelation 
of all she wished to know ; and, moreover, it occurred to her 
tliat if Miss Vaughn should acknowledge herself to be really 
in want, it would require but one of her own irresistible smiles 
to induce the cook to supply her with a basket of good things 
every evening. Full of these thoughts, so rational as scarcely 
1(1 fi:cl at home in that careless little head, Miss Rosa cast aside 
the worsteds that she had been assorting, and tripped away to 
the back sitting-room. Her step was as light as a fairy's ; 
aiul though she had hummed the fragment of a tune at first 
starting, it ceased as soon as she left the parlor, and she 
reached the back sitting-room without having attracted the 
attention of its occi\pant. The door was ajar, and Rosa 
paused, like the unpractised little girl that she was, to con- 
sider what she should say. She did not intend to be a spy 
upon the seamstress, but it was perfectly natural that she 
should turn her eyes towards the crevice in the door ; and as 
she did so, they fell upon the shadow of a person who seemed 
to be standing by her mother's escritoir. The person herself 
(for it was the shadow of a woman) was invisible ; but Rosa 
thought at once of the seamstress, and at the same time she 
recollected seeing her mother with a bank note between her 
fingers while ^vriting a letter, an hour previous. She had 
noted, too, even then, a strange look in the face of Ellen 
Vaughn, that showed she also saw it; and had observed her 
turn away her head after a single glance, and press her palms 
heavily on her eye-lids, with an exhibition of feeling which 
19 



218 THE BANK NOTE. 

she could in no wise interpret. Then Mrs. Warner was 
called suddenly away, and Ellen Vaughn turned her back 
upon the escritoir, and applied herself to her needle as though 
she had no thought disconnected from the unfinished garment 
in her hand. All these recollections came crowding upon 
the mind of the little girl, with a bewildering power. She 
attempted to move, but her feet seemed fastened to the floor ; 
to turn her head, but her eyes would fix themselves on that 
shadow. Rosa would not have believed, an hour before, that 
anything short of imminent danger to herself could frighten 
her so. But now the moving of the shadow sent her heart 
fluttering into her throat; and when Ellen Vaughn immedi- 
ately after stepped across her line of vision, and disappeared 
on the other side, she could scarcely suppress a scream. 
Should she tell her mother? But what had she to tell? 
She had seen only a shadow, and if it were Ellen Vaughn's, 
she might have been looking at a book or adjusting her hair 
at the mirror. Her mother's escritoir was not the only thing 
in that part of the room. So reasoned Rosa, meanwhiie 
drawing back into the shadow of an opened "door beyond, 
though her trembling limbs could scarce support her weight, 
and the beatings of her heart sounded to her frightened ear 
like the heavy strokes of a muffled bell. She had scarce 
gained this concealment, when the sitting-room door was 
pushed open cautiously ; the ashen face of the seamstress 
peered forth, and her perturbed eye wandered up and down 
the hall with a quick, startled glance, as though she was 
afraid that the stairs and tables would find mouths to witness 
against her. One white, shaking hand, clutched the bosotu 
of her dress, as though determined to defend her terrible 
secret, and the other was pressed against her haggard fori"- 
head, while two or three successive shivers passed over her 
whole frame. She trembled and reeled from side to side a-- 
she passed along the hall, starting at every sound, and turn- 
ing with a scared look to gaze at each shadow that lay across 
her way, until she reached the door. Then, casting one 
hasty glance around her, she slipped through the opening 



THE BANK NOTE. 219 

and closed it with a nervous quickness. Rosa noted all this; 
and, if she had been the guilty one, she could not have trem- 
bled more, or turned paler. Lightly she glided forth from 
her place of concealment, and hurried to her mother's escri- 
toir. The half- written letter was there, and the pen, with 
the ink scarcely dried upon it, but the bank note had disap- 
peared. What a faint, horrible feeling, crept to the heart of 
Rosa Warner! Not ihat she never heard of a theft before, 
but she had never been in the immediate vicinity of one — 
never seen it committed. Should she go to her mother now, 
and have the girl arrested in the public street, with that paK' 
face and shaking hand to evidence against her ? Immediately 
rose before her the agonized look of poor Ellen Vaughn ; and 
then she thought of her, dragged away to prison, while per- 
haps the sick mother and the two little sisters of whom she 
had spoken were starving. True, it was right that the crime 
should be exposed, but she could not do it. She should never 
sleep again, if she allowed her hand to unseal the vial so full 
of misery. An older than herself must hold the balance that 
was to mete out justice ; the tear-gem of mercy M'as a fitter or- 
nament for one so young to wear. Rosa did not think lhef;e 
thoughts in these words, but the result was strikingly like ; 
and yet, though she fully persuaded herself that no one need 
know what she had seen, her heart was heavy with its secret. 
These considerations had occupied scarce a m^oment, and now 
another project entered her head. She v/ould know what 
Ellen Vaughn did with that money, and be governed in her 
conduct toward her entirely by that. Tying on a little straw 
bonnet, enveloping her figure in a sombre shawl, and drawing 
a green veil over her face, she passed hurriedly through the 
nail and followed the seamstress over the pavement. Ellen 
had disappeared ; but Rosa knew the first corner, and she 
; almost ran until she obtained a glimpse of the rusty black 
i bonnet and faded dress. Ellen Vaughn had entirely lost her 
i* usual free step and air ; there was a stoop in her figure, and 
i a crouching, hesitating manner of moving, which showed the 
crime had written itself on her conscience, and was heaping 



220 



THE BANK NOTE. 



up the infamy within, which men might soon pour upon her 
head. She crept along steaUhily, close by the railing, and 
Eosa could see, from the little distance she kept, the hand 
clutching the dress as it had done at first; and she could see, 
too, that it trembled but little less than it had done in the 
house. At another time, Rosa Warner would not have ven- 
tured on those dark, filthy back streets alone, but now, she 
did not once think of the strangeness of her situation, or the 
danger of being unable to find her way back again. The 
twilight was deepening, but she kept her eye on the moving 
figure before her, and her thoughts could not be on herself. 
At length the seamstress reached a large old wooden building, 
in a ruinous condition, the crazy shutters mostly hanging \>i 
one hinge, the windows stuffed with mouldy clothes, the cla})- 
boards loose upon the wall, and the whole structure settling 
to one side, and seeming as though a pufF of wind mi^lil 
level it. As the girl set her foot upon the broken stairs, a 
boy, some dozen years of age, glided from beneath them, anil 
laid his hand upon her arm, whispering, " Wait a minui^ 
Nelly ! — Hush ! don't speak loud — they will hear us." 

" Who?" inquired the girl, casting a glance of horror o^ > . 
her shoulder, as though capable of but a single thought. 

" Mother and the children. Come this way, Nelly ; I ?)u/s!: 
tell you. I hav'n't earned a penny to-day — not a single on.'. 
Nobody would trust a bundle with such a looking boy as 1 ; 
and nobody had a vahse to carry, or a horse to hold — noboily. 
because we were starving, Nelly." 

" John ! " 

" It may be that this is murmuring — sinful murmurinL 
mother would say, but I cannot help it. The little girls ]ia\ _ 
been crying with hunger for the last hour, and mother is wors' , 
ten times vi^orse — she will die, Nelly, and all for the want ni 
a little money to pay a doctor. Oh ! Avhat will become of us ;" " 

"I — I — have got " Ellen Vaughn began; but the 

words seemed to choke her, and she remained silent. 

" But I hav'n't told you all, Nelly; mother has said strange 
things to-day ; she has not been in her right mind, and when 



THE BANK NOTE. 221 

f was gone, sne frightened the little girls so that they left her 
alone." 

Poor Ellen clasped her hands and looked upward ; but, 
immediately, an expression of mingled fear and shame passed 
over her countenance, and she covered her face with her 
spread palms, saying, in a low, hoarse whisper, " We must do 
something for her, John." 

'• We can't — we can^io^.' Oh, Nelly ! that money should 
buy health, and life ! How can it be right?" 

" We will have a doctor for mother." 

" No ! we can't ! that is what I wanted to tell you. I have 
been everywhere — everywhere that I could find a 'Dr.' on 
the sign-plate, and Nelly, not one of them will come — no 
one of them will stir from his door to save our mother's life.' 

"They must, for — for — I — have — got — " Ellen 
gasped for breath, and again stopped ; while the brother, too 
much engaged with his own tale to heed her broken words, 
proceeded — " After that, I went into a store — there was a 
dollar — a large silver dollar, lying upon the counter, right in 
my way, and nobody saw me — " 

" John ! " shrieked the poor girl, staggering heavily against 
the wall. 

"No! no! Nelly — I didn't take it! There were bad 
thoughts came into my mind ; but I remembered you and 
mother — I knew that mother would rather die than be saved 
jso; and I knew that you, Nelly, would never use such 
money ; and I could not tell you a lie. No I no ! I did n't 
take the money; but I don't think any better thought tlian 
that kept me from it. I am sure I should have done it, only 
I knew it would break your heart." 

A loud, convulsive sob burst from the bosom of the poor 
girl, and her frame shook violently. 

" Don't mind it now, Nelly, don't ! The doctors made me 
mad, or I should never have felt so. But you need n't be 
afraid I shall be tempted again — oh no ! not even for the sake 
of mother and the little girls." 

Oh ! how willingly would Ellen Yaughn have made her 
19* 



222 THE BANK NOTE. 



mother's shroud with her own hands, and lain down to dit 
with those she loved, so that it could have been done in honoi 
and innocence. There is no misery like that which eats intc 
the still lingering traces of God's image, and degrades us be^ 
fore ourselves. 

" Don't cry, Nelly ! don't ! exclaimed the boy, putting hi; 
arms about her neck, soothingly. " I shall have better lucl 
lo-morrow, I dare say ; and all will come out right in the end 
Mother said last night that it is all for our good — God is try 
ing us to make us better ; and, though I don't think so mucl 
about such things as I ought, I always feel as though nothing 
very bad could happen to us, when she lays her hand on m] 
head — just as she used to on the ocean, Nelly — and talk; 
of our Heavenly Father's knowing all about us, and takin< 
care of us. Don't cry, Nelly, I shall be a man in a few years 
and then I can support us all. You shall not live in a garre 
then, Nelly." And the boy, as he spoke, straightened hi: 
arm, and set down his foot firmly, as though he longed fo 
the strong frame that might wrestle with his wayward destiny 

One shiver passed over the sister, and made her teeth chat 
ter momentarily, and then she dropped her hands from he 
face, and turning away her head, she drew the note from he 
bosom, and pushed it into the boy's hand. " I ought not t( 
cry, John, for I have that which we most need. No docto 
will refuse you now, and you can get bread for the children 
too." 

" Five dollars, Nelly ! " and the boy's face brightened u] 
with joy. 

" Go as soon as you can, John ! the children are cryinj 
with hunger, and mother worse — worse ! God will forgiv 
me," she murmured. 

" But, Nelly, Mrs. Warner has not given you all this fo 
three days' work, has she ? " 

"No matter, now — no matter — don't ask me anythinj 
about it — I might tell a lie ! " 

" No, no ! but you don't want to tell the truth. I see hov 
it is — Mrs. Warner has given you this for being good am 



THE BANK NOTE. 223 

faithful, and you don't love to boast of your own goodness - 
just like you, Nelly." 

" Go ! go ! " gasped the poor girl ; and as the brother 
sprang from her side, and bounded joyfully along the pave- 
ment, she turned her face to the wall and wept, and wrung 
her hands in utter abandonment. Rosa Warner longed to 
step forward and comfort her, but this was neither the time 
nor place ; and she stood back, awe-stricken, until the girl 
brushing away her tears, and trying to call up a look of cheer- 
fulness, began to mount the stairs. Then the child, for the 
first time reminded of her own situation, drew her veil more 
closely about her face, and, v/ithout giving one look to the 
gloomy piles around her, or the star-lighted sky above, turned 
back and fled like a frightened fawn homeward. 

Rosa was by no means sure of her way, for she had noted 
nothing when she came but Ellen Vaughn. We never know 
our own resources till necessity moulds them into a spade, and 
puts it into our hands, bidding us work. Rosa Warner, the 
timid, delicate, thoughtless child, that had scarce ever been 
allowed to use her own judgment, even in the selection of a 
riband for her hair, lost in the dark of evening, in a spot given 
up to wretchedness, if not to vice ! But Rosa was scarce 
alarmed : her mind was preoccupied. Now and then she 
paused at a corner, in embarrassment ; then she would renew 
her speed, and press onward, taking care to observe a course 
which she knew led into a more familiar part of the city. By 
this means, she avoided losing herself among obscure turns 
and windings, and, although she was taking a long way home, 
she was soon con\'inced of the wisdom of her plan, by finding 
herself on well known ground. As soon as Rosa Warner 
reached home, she proceeded to the parlor, and was delighted 
to find her father alone. 

' You recollect that pink barege, papa ?" she said, crossing 
her hands on his shoulder. 

' Yes, I have cause ; it spoiled my daughter's face for a 
whole day." 

" Because I had s©; my heart on it, and was so disap- 



224 



THE BANK NOTE. 



pointed. But no matter about it, now ; I want to ask you 
something else, papa. Would you give me the money that il 
would cost — would you give me five dollars, if you knew 
that I would put it to a good use ? " 

" I could not know, my daughter, that you would put it tc 
a good use, without being told what you proposed doing with 
it. Misses with short frocks," he added, tapping her chin 
playfully, " are no good judges in these matters." Tears 
came into the little girl's eyes, and they were not unobserved 
by the father. He put his arm about her and drew her to his 
knee. 

" How now, Rosa ? have you such a very hard father that 
you cannot tell him your little secrets ? Now I have so much 
confidence in j'-our discretion, that I promise you the money 
beforehand, and you must have enough confidence in my 
desire to gratify you, to tell me all about your little project ■ 
it is a nice one, I dare say." 

" It may not be, papa — perhaps it is wrong, but — " 

" Then tell me, and I will help you judge." 

Rosa hesitated. She had full confidence in her father's 
generosity and goodness of heart ; but then she knew that he 
was strict in the administration of justice, and there was a 
crime in the way, which she could not but look upon with, 
abhorrence. How much more severely then, might her 
father, not seeing the palliating circumstances as she could 
see them, judge of the matter. 

" Indeed, papa, there is something that I do not feel at lib- 
erty to tell even to you ; if it concerned myself I would 
you know I aiways have done so ; but this — " 

" I am sorry people should burden my little girl with their 
secrets." 

" Nobody has. All I know is partly by accident, partly 
my own — fault. But papa, allow me to tell you a little, and 
do not ask me to speak plainer. Five dollars," — and Rosa 
DOW spoke quick and fervidly, while her eye avoided her 
father's, her cheek flushed, and her lip quivered — " five dol- 
lars will save a poor, sick family from misery, from disgrace. 



THE BANK NOTE. 225 

Perhaps they are not worthy — I do not know — but they 
leed it — they are suffering — will you give it to me, papa?" 

Closely closed the arms about the excited daughter, and the 
"ather's voice was not quite clear, as he inquired, " why not 
JO to your mother, Rosa ? " 

" I cannot — there are good reasons why I cannot. May 1 
lave tlie money, papa ? " 

" These secrets are bad things, my dear, but — I will trust 
rou." 

" No ! do 7iot trust me ! " exclaimed the child, vehemently. 
What I do may be wrong — I am afraid it is. Do not trmt 
ne — think nothing about it either way — forget, dear papa, 
hat you have given me this money." 

The father shook his head doubtingly, but at the same time 
le drew forth the note and put it into her hand. 

" One more favor, papa ; may this be a secret between us 
wo ? " 

" Rosa, I do not approve of these secrets — honest people 
lever have them. Your mysteries do not please me at all ; 
md, I cannot encourage or tolerate them — they begin with 
his, and with this they must end." 

They shall, papa ; but, if you knew all, you would not 
'dame me, at least." 

" I do not blame you, my dear ; I do not doubt your 
notives ; but I must not allow you to contract bad habits. 
Manoeuvring to do good is manoeuvring still ; and, where so 
•nuch machinery is necessary, the end seldom justifies the 
Tieans. It takes an old head to carry a secret, a very old one 
— mine is less black than it was once ; but it is not old enough 
,0 be so burdened yet. And yours — why these pretty ring- 
ets are a strange wig for one knowing in the ways of the 
ivorld, — they should not cover a brain given to plotting and 
jonjuring." 

• Papa, you mistake me, altogether ; I have not looked for 
1 secret, but it came to me ; and now I do what seems to mo 
best. I shall never be deceitful, I know I never shall. If 



226 THE BANK NOTE. 

every mystery vexes me like this, I am sure I shall a\oi(i 
another." 

" So he it, my child." 

" Thank you, dear papa," and leaving a kiss on both 
cheeks, Rosa slid from her father's knee, and left the apart- 
ment. Gaining the hall, she paused a moment, for there I 
were voices in the back sitting-room, and she caught a word \ 
or two that told her the note had been missed. i 

What was to be done now ? The last moment spent with I 
lier father had ruined her plan ; and now that the discovery ) 
had been made, of what use was the note she had obtained 
to replace the lost one ? The frank acknowledgment of the 
existence of a secret, that had succeeded so well with her 
father, would be entirely useless here; for Mrs. Warner i! 
would never rest until the whole was thoroughly investigated. 
Rosa was about giving up all, and going back to the parlor, 
when the thought of poor Ellen Vaughn, the confiding brother, 
the sick mother, and the hungry little girls, came freshly into 
her mind, and she resolved to make one more effort. Reach- 
ing the door, she again paused ; for she felt her limbs shake, 
and knew by the chill which passed over her frame, that shg 
must be very pale. She stood for a moment striving for 
composure, and then pushed open the door. The moment 
she entered, one of her cousins glided up to her, and, with , 
consternation depicted on her face, whispered, " What think 
you, Rosa, aunt has lost a five dollar note." 

" She left it in an unsafe place," observed Miss Rosa, with 
well-feigned carelessness, and elevating the note above hen 
head. 

" Rosa Warner ! " exclaimed the lady, sternly, and Avith one 
of her withering glances, " where learned you to practise ' 
tricks on your mother ? Go to your room ! " 

Rosa turnei without a word, and bursting into tears before: 
she reached the hall, hurried up the stairs and threw herself,, 
sobbing, on her own bed. Her ruse had succeeded well, but 
she had incurred the anger of her mother, and her conscience > 
old her that she deserved it all, and more. " I am deceit- • 



THE BANK NOTE. 227 

ful ! " she repeated to herself more than a dozen times that 
night, and over and over she resolved to confess the whole 
the very next morning. But when morning really came, it 
brought quite' a different state of feeling. Mrs. Warner 
seemed to have forgotten the affair of the last evening; and 
Iiosa, persuaded that she had saved the poor girl from ruin, 
did not regret the means she had taken to accomplish it. 
She felt some flutterings of heart when eight o'clock drew 
near; and started every time the door-bell rang, glancing 
from the window to see if she could get a glimpse of the 
iilack bonnet ; but eight passed, and nine came and passed. 
and no seamstress appeared. Mrs. Warner grew impatient ; 
for though not pleased with Ellen Vaughn's face, she was 
ol'liged to own that in the use of the needle she combined 
ci lerity and skill. Ten came round, and still no Ellen 
V;ii.ghn. 

She must be ill," suggested Rosa; "may I go and see, 
iMiiiiima?" 

•• You will not know where to find her." 

Kosa blushed; here was another concealment. "Robert 
might go with me ; you sent him home with Miss Vaughn 
once." 

" True, Robert can go, and then there will be no need of 
your going." 

'But if they should need assistance, mamma, it seems so 
much kinder for one of the family " 

'You have taken a strange fancy to that girl," observed 
Mrs. Warner. 

" She seems so unhappy ! " murmured the child : but it was 
the starting tear, not the words, that pleaded her cause with 
her mother. 

" You have yet a great deal to learn, my dear," said the 
proud woman, tenderly ; " but still this girl may be in want ; 
her mother may be worse, and I have no objection to your 
oing to see. Get your bonnet, and in the mean time I will 
fill a basket for Robert to carry. We should never visit the 
poor without taking some comforts with us." 



228 THE BANK NOTE. 

Mrs. Warner did not always think that comforts comprisec 
only the things that could be stowed away in a basket ; bu 
for her prejudices, she would have gone herself to look afle 
Ellen Vaughn ; and when her heart was enlisted, no humai 
being was ever more completely mistress of the whole vocab 
ulary of consolation than she. 

Strange emotions were swelling in the heart of pretty Rose 
Warner as she tripped along beside the good-natured serving 
man, for she thought of the evening previous, when Eller 
Vaughn reeled over the pavement before her ; and she won 
dered what good people — what her father and mother woulc 
think of her, if they knew she had been accessary to a theft. 
It made her shudder, and she resolved not to think of it, 
Then the conversation at the foot of the stairs came back tc 
her, word by word ; and she wished that her mother could 
have heard it, believing that if she could, she Avould forgive! 
and pity poor Ellen Vaughn. The clapboards rattling all 
each puff of air, the useless shutters, and the broken stairs, 
were not new to Rosa ; and when Robert turned and asked 
her, "Did you ever see anything like it, miss?" she only 
answered with a shudder. 

Robert inquired of a poor woman, at the top of the stairs, 
for Mrs. Vaughn's room, and was shown up a rickety back- 
staircase, the old crone muttering as she hobbled on beforq 
them, — ■ 

" It 's but a narry room the puir crathur 'II be afther havin* 
whin the sun is doon, an' a deal nigher God's airth than this 
ould garret, I 'm a thinkin' ! " 

Rosa, though startled, had no time to ask an explanation 
lor the old woman stopped, and pointing with her staff toward 
a half-opened door, hobbled back the way she came. 

"Hush, Robert !" whispered the child, putting her fin ge] 
to her lip ; and stepping lightly, forward, she stood unobserve 
in the opening. Unobserved — for who was there to obse 
her ? On a miserable couch, spread of straw and rags upoi 
the bare floor, lay the figure of a woman. The cheeks we 
sunken and the muscles rigid ; weights were laid upon t 



THE BANK NOTE. 229 

closed eyes to keep down the lids ; the chin was bound up by 
a folded kerchief; and the white, bony hands lay as they had 
been placed, their livid tips crossing each other on her still 
bosom. The mother of poor Ellen Vaughn was dead. Rosa 
saw it at a glance ; and tears filled her eyes, and streamed 
do\vn over her face, as she noted a touching exhibition of 
simple-hearted affection. A pale, meagre-loolcing child was 
kneeling by the bedside, trying with her trembling little hand 
to place in the bosom of the dead a single rose which she had 
just broken from a scraggy, sickly bush beside her. The 
mother had probably loved that rose-tree, and smiled on the 
little bud that came like a sweet messenger to cheer her, and 
watched its opening from day to day with an interest incon- 
ceivable to those who have never been walled up in the prison 
of a noisome, filthy street, in the darkest quarter of a large 
city. The child, too, had loved it ; and she gave all she had 
to give, when she broke that cherished stem. A little one, 
still younger, sat on the knee of Ellen Vaughn, playing with 
her fast falling tears, and looking into her face with curious 
interest. 

' Be 's she don to Dod, sissy ?" inquired the little prattler; 
" when will she tum back agin ? " 

Poor Ellen could not answer ; and the unconscious baby- 
orphan, putting her thin, blue arms about her neck, said, 
softly, " Don't ki, sissy, don't ki, an' I will tiss 'ou." 

The boy, with quivering chin and swollen eyes, stood at 
the foot of the bed, watching his sister's fond movements 
about the dead ; and when she had finished, and left a kiss 
on the icy fingers and the sunken cheek, he pressed both 
hands upon the aching forehead, and with a loud, sob-like 
burst of agony, turned away, and coiled himself up in the 
farthest corner of the room. 

' We are too late, Robert," whispered Rosa Warner, " go 
and tell mother." 

Robert drew the sleeve of his coat hastily across his eyes, 
and hurried down the stairs ; while Rosa twined her arms 
«vrith those of the little one on Ellen Vaughn's knee, and 
20 



230 THE BANK NOTE. 

whispered such words as were the first to find their way up 
from her swelling heart. 

When Mrs. Warner reached the house of death, she found 
the seamstress fast asleep, with her head resting on her 
daughter's lap, and the three children gathered around Rosa's 
feet, listening to her words of soothing and encouragement. 
How changed did Rosa Warner seem within the last three 
days ! How exquisitely had the pencil of sorrow shaded and 
mellowed down her beauty ! So thought the mother, as she 
gazed upon the little ministering angel ; and then a severe 
pang of remorse shot to her heart as her eye fell upon the 
hollow, death-like face between her child's soothing hands. 

"Poor Ellen is asleep, mamma," whispered Rosa; "she 
has not closed her eyes for two whole nights, and she is-: 
almost worn out with fatigue." 

John hastened to bring the only stool the garret could! 
boast; his younger sister, a glow of gratitude lighting up hen 
sad face, exclaimed, " You are so good ! " and the little one, 
nestling both of her puny hands in the lady's, looked up into 
l:ker face, and began telling her that "mammy had don to 
Dod," never to "tum back agin," but that she would send for 
all of them one of these days, and then they " should n't be 
hundry any more — never — never — " so "sissy" said. 

Hungry, poor lisper ! That the grave should be an infant's 
hope ! Mrs. Warner promised her own heart that their last 
hour of suffering from hunger had passed ; then, taking the 
prattler in her arms, she called the boy to her side ; and, with 
the most sympathetic delicacy, drew from him revealings that 
made her heart ache. He told her how they had been happy 
beyond the sea ; how, in an evil hour, his father had sold his 
little patrimony, and embarked for an unknown land; of a 
death and burial at sea, that left the little family without ai 
head, desolate, indeed ; of a poor womaxi seeking a home in 
a strange land, followed by her dependent children; of the 
daily diminishing of their slender funds ; of wakeful eyes 
and anxious bosoms ; of the gradual sinking away of one of: 
their number, and' the grave opened for her in the village; 



THE BANK NOTE. 231 

church-yard ; of toil and sickness, sickness, toil, and tears , 
then want of work, followed by want of bread ; the bitter 
mockery that men palm off for sympathy ; hours minuted by 
woe ; the almost hopeless dining to hope ; of vain, impotent 
struggles ; and finally, the ill-judged removal to the city. 
The boy stopped there ; and Mrs. Warner, glancing around 
the miserable garret, read all the rest but too plainly. Oh ! 
what sacrifice would not the proud lady have made to be able 
to live over again the three days since she had first seen Ellen 
Vaughn ! The boy had told her of a previous bereavement, 
and she now inquired where they had buried his sister. He 
told her of a pleasant grave-yard on the shore of New Jersey, 
and of a rose-bush that he had planted, and his mother and 
Nelly watered and trimmed ; "but," exclaimed the boy with a 
passionate sob, " she cannot lie there ! They will put my 
mother in the Potter's-field — they will not leave us even her 
grave ! Oh ! that is worst of all ! " 

Mrs. Warner assured him that his mother should be buried 
in the spot which he and Ellen should choose ; and when 
Rosa saw the boy's mournful delight, she could scarce forbear 
waking the sleeper, to whisper the same consolation in her 
ear. But when Ellen at last did awake, it was not to be con- 
soled. At sight of Mrs. Warner she was at first surprised ; 
then, overcome by shame and remorse, she buried her face in 
her crossed arms ; and finally, springing to her feet impetu- 
ously, she would have revealed the whole, but for a whisper 
from Rosa. " Do not say it before your brother, Ellen." 

The girl recoiled ; and her limbs gradually failing beneath 
her, she sank slowly on the foot of the bed, murmuring, 
" Then you know it all, and the children will know it and 
despise me. Thank God I my mother is spared this ! But 
who will care for the children ? " 

" Nobody knows it," whispered Rosa feelingly, " nobody 
but me ; and you must not tell — now, at least." 

Mrs. Warner did not wonder that sight of her should so 
affect the poor seamstress ; and she now came forward and 
spoke kind, pitying words, in those tones which steal so 
soothingly over the aching heart, and lull the perturbed spirit. 



232 THE BANK NOTE. 

In less than a week, a pleasant room was opened a few 
doors from Mrs. Warner's, and filled with flowers and choice 
books, and everything agreeable to a cultivated, simple taste ; 
and this was the home of the orphans. Not that they were 
paupers, for their busy hands returned an equivalent for all 
the good they received. The power to use their hands was 
all that had been given them. John was sent to school four 
hours in the day, and employed by Mr. Warner the remain- 
der of the time, learning constantly lessons of industry and 
independence. The sister, who had cherished the rose so 
fondly, and bestowed it so touchingly, had plenty of roses 
now ; and when not engaged in school, she glided around 
among the flowers like one of their own sweet selves. The 
little one talked no more of going to heaven to avoid being 
" hungry," but still she lisped her broken prayers, kneeling 
in her sister's lap, and still she prattled to Mrs. Warner of 
things " sissy" told her, sometimes perverting their meaning 
ludicrously, and always appearing most enchantingly simple. 
As for Ellen, she habitually wore a look of sad seriousness 
far beyond her years; but every day it became more and 
more mellowed and sweetened, till one could scarce wish it 
away. It required but few words from Mrs. Warner, to inter- 
est several ladies in the young girl's behalf ; and from that 
time she never lacked employment, and consequently never 
lacked either the necessaries, or a moderate share of the lux- 
uries, of life. 

And did Ellen Vaughn ever acknowledge how much more 
miserable she had made herself, than all the troubles, and 
sorrows, and privations that had been heaped without meas- 
ure upon the heads of those she loved, could have made her? 
and was Miss Rosa Warner's little chain of deceptions ever 
brought to light? Ay, it could not be otherwise; for the 
seamstress would not leave her miserable garret until the 
darkest corner of her heart, the darkest leaf of her life, was 
unfolded to her benefactress. And Mrs. Warner, proud 
woman as she was, wept, and for the first time spoke of her- 
self, declaring that she had been guilty of a double crime— 



THE BANK NOTE. 233 

tlie fault was entirely hers. And Rosa ! Oh ! the pink 
barege was only a tithe of her rewards, though no one called 
the gifts heaped upon her by such a name. And how much 
more attention Mrs. Warner bestowed upon her now ! how 
much she watched every movement, and strove to read every 
glance ! and how she wondered that she had ever considered 
the little lady so utterly thoughtless ! But Rosa Warner was 
thoughtless, even as the morning bird that 

" Pours its full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art." 

That is, she was thoughtless as far as the head was con- 
cerned ; but her little heart was brimming over with heavenly 
wisdom — a wisdom made up of love and joy. 
20* 



234 



TO MY SISTER IN HEAVEN 

My sister, when the evening wanes, 
And midnight hours creep on; 

When hushed is every earthly sound, 
And all my cares are gone ; 

'T is then, into my quiet room - 

Thou comest as of yore ; 
And close I seat me at thy side, 

Where oft I 've sat before. 

Then I am not as in the day, 

But grow again a child. 
Simple and loving, as when first 

Thy lips upon me smiled. 

There, with thine arm about my waist, 

Thy fingers on my brow — 
Those long, thin fingers, parting back 

The clustering hair — and thou 

Pale as the unsunned violet. 

Which opens by the rill ; 
I sit and gaze into thine eyes. 

Deep, dark, and loving, still. 

And then I hear thy soft low voice, 
Which always touched my heart ; 

And weep because thou tellest me 
How near to heaven thou art. 

And still thou speak'st of angel ones, 
That bow before the throne ; 

And say'st the little one thou 'st loved 
Shall ne'er be left alone 



TO MY SISTER IN HEAVEN. 

But when, an angel too, thou hast 

Thy robes of glory on. 
Thou 'It hover round her pillowed rest, 

Till morning light shall dawn ; 

And ever, through life's mazy way, 
Thou 'It guide her wayward feet • 

And be the first her spirit freed 
In yonder home to greet. 

And, sister mine, I 've felt thy care 

In danger o'er me thrown ; 
And when cold hearts were gathering near, 

I have not been alone. 

Long years have wheeled their weary round, 

Since dark and deep they laid 
Thy coffined form, and heaped the earth, 

And bowed their heads and prayed ; 

Then turned away and talked of spring 

And of the sunny day ; 
As though the earth could smile again, 

When thou hadst passed away ! 

And since, I 've trod a thorny path. 

Of loneliness and pain ; 
Of clouded skies, and blighted flowers 

And coldness, and disdain. 

I 've drunk from out a bitter cup ; 

With care and grief have striven ; 
But then, the rustle of thy wing 

Has brought me near to heaven. 

Then come, my angel-one, to-night ; 

My heart is full of gloom ; 
Come with thy quiet step and smile, 

And seat thee in my room. 



236 TO MY SISTER IN HEAVEN. 

And clasp, me, sister, in thine arms, 
And hold me to thy breast ; 

For by the thronging cares of earth 
I 'm wearied and oppressed. 

And let me close my aching lids, 
And sleep upon that arm. 

Which used to seem enough to me 
To shelter from all harm. 

I 'm weary now, I 'm weary now ! 

I fain would be at rest ! 
Yet closer twine thine angel arms. 

And fold me to thy breast. 



237 



ALLY FISHER. 

Study, study, study ! 
_ Trudge, trudge, trudge ! 

Sew, sew, sew ! 

Oh, what a humdrum life was that of little Ally Fisher ! 
Day in, day out, late and early, from week's end to week's 
end, it was all the same. Oh, how Ally's feet and head and 
hands ached! and sometimes her heart ached, too — poor 
child ! 

Ally was not an interesting little girl ; she had no time to 
be interesting. Her voice, true, was very sweet, but so plain- 
tive ! Beside, you seldom heard it ; for little Ally Fisher's 
thoughts were so constantly occupied, that it was seldom they 
found time to come up to her lips. No, Ally was not inter- 
esting. She had never given out the silvery, care-free, heart- 
laugh which Ave love so to hear from children : she could not 
laugh ; for, though sent to earth, a disguised ministering an- 
gel, vice had arisen between her and all life's brightness, and 
clouded in her sun. And how can anything be interesting 
on which the shadow of vice rests ? Instead of mirth, Ally 
had given her young spirit to sorrow; instead of the bright 
flowers springing up in the pathway of blissful childhood, the 
swelling, bursting buds of Hope that make our spring days 
so gay. Ally looked out upon a desert with but one oasis. 
Oh, how dear was- that bright spot, with its flowers all fade- 
less, its waters sparkling, never-failing, living, its harps, its 
crowns, its sainted ones, its white-winged throng, its King' 
The King of Heaven! — that kind Saviour who loved her, 
who watched over her in her helplessness, who counted all 
her tears, lightened all her burdens, and was waiting to take 
her in his arms and shelter her forever in his bosom. Little 
Ally Fisher had indeed one pure, precious source of happi- 



.^38 



ALLY FISHER. 



ness ; and that was why the grave did not open beneath her 
childish feet, and she go down into it for rest, worn out by 
her burden of sorrow, want and misery. Yet Ally was not 
interesting. When other children were out playing among 
the quivering, joyful summer shadows, she sat away behind 
her desk in the school-room, sew, sew, sewing, till her eyes 
ached away back into her head, and her little arm felt as 
though it must drop from the thin shoulder. " Odd ways 
these for a child ! How disagreeably mature! It is a very 
unpleasant thing to see children make old women of them- 
selves !" Ah, then, woe to the sin — woe to the sinner who 
cheats a young heart of its spring ! 

Neither was Ally beautiful; — her face was so thin and 
want-pinched, and her great eyes looked so wobegone ! 
How could Ally be beautiful, with such a load of care upon 
her, crushing beneath its iron weight the rich jewels which 
God had lavished upon her spirit ? It is the inner beauty that 
shines upon the face, — and all the flowers of her young 
heart had been blasted. Her curls were glossy enough, but 
you could not help believing, when you looked upon them, 
that misery nestled in their deep shadows ; her eyes were of 
the softest, meekest brown, fringed with rich sable, but so full 
of misery ! Her complexion was transparently fair, with a 
tinge of blue, instead of the warm, generous heart-tide which 
oolongs to childhood and youth; all her features were pinched 
and attenuated ; her hands were small, and thin, and blue ; 
and her little figure, m its scanty, homely clothing, looked 
very much like a weed which has stood too long in the 
autumn time. So frail ! so delicate ! so desolate ! 

And did anybody love little Ally Fisher? the busy bee — 
the hum-drum worker — the forlorn child who was neither 
mteresting nor beautiful ? Was there anybody to love her ? 
No one but her mother — a poor, sad looking woman, who 
wore a faded green bonnet and a patched chintz frock, and 
never stopped to smile or shake hands with anybody, when 
she walked out of the village church. This desolate, sad- 
liearted woman, with her bony figure and sharpened face — 



ALLY FISUER. 239 

this Dame Fisher, whom the boys called a scare-crow, and 
the girls used to imitate in tableaux — this strange woman, 
seeming in her visible wretchedness scarce to belong to this 
bright, beautiful world, bore a measureless, exhaustless foun- 
tain of love behind the faded garments and the ugly person ; 
and she lavished all its holy \yealth on poor little Ally, Ally 
had a father, too ; but he did not love her. He loved nothing 
but the vile grog-shop at the corner of the street, and the 
brown earthen jug which he yet had humanity or shame 
enough to hide away in the loft. Ah, now you see why Ally 
Fisher was unhappy ! Now you see the vice in whose 
shadow the stricken child matured so rapidly ! Now you 
are ready to exclaim with me, "Poor, poor Ally Fisher! 
God help her ! " 

Ay, God help her I 

Ally tried very hard to help herself; but her mother was 
always very feeble, and there were several little ones younger 
than herself. What could poor Ally do ? She went to 
school — that she 76-oz<Z<^ do, because she never could accom- 
plish anything at home in that small, crowded room, with all 
those thin-faced, miserable little creatures about her ; but she 
took her sewing with her, and every moment that she could 
steal from her books was devoted to earning bread. 

Dame Fisher had looked earnestly forward to the time 
when Ally would be old enough and learned enough to vary 
the monotonous character of her employment, and preside in 
the capacity of teacher over the little school just over the hill. 
These mothers are so dotingly hopeful ! How could she 
think of it, and Ally the child of a drunkard ? To be sure, 
this was the only vice of which Billy Fisher had ever been 
guilty. He had nev^er defrauded his neighbor ; he had never, 
in better days, when some who now despised him were in his 
power, been oppressive to the poor ; he had harmed no one, 
nor wished harm to any ; he had only degraded his own 
nature almost to a bestial level, and poured out a vessel of 
shame upon his family. Enough, to be sure ; but then Ally 
she had always been a gentle, patient, toiling, faultless 



240 ALLY I'ISHER. 

child, and why must she suffer for her father's sin? What! 
the daughter of the drunken vagabond, Billy Fisher, a teach- 
er for their children ! What a presuming minx she must be ! 
The idea was preposterous ! She must find other means of 
supplying herself with the finery she was prinking in of late ; 
let her go into the kitchen where she belonged ! Poor Ally ! 
she had wrought till midnight for a fortnight, to prepare her- 
self for presentation to these same fault-finders ; and if she 
had not, they would have called her ragamuffin. Where 
shall we look for a reasonable man ? 

Ally was not much distressed. To be sure, it was the 
breaking up of a long cherished dream, and the severer that 
this had been the only dream she had ever dared cherish ; 
but the poor girl had a holy resource, and she did not repine. 
She went from the door where the one hope of her life had 
been cruelly crushed, with a swelling heart and faltering step. 
Over the stile across the way, the little blue eyes of the spring- 
violets were looking up lovingly from beds of moss ; the freed 
streams were dancing gaily, flashing and sparkling in the 
simlight ; and on a brown maple bough, where leaf-buds were 
swelling ready to burst with life, a little bird, the first spring- 
bird, carolled as blithely as though it might thus bring Eden 
to a desolate, disappointed, sorrowing heart. Ally Fisher 
heard it, and the tears broke over their frjnged boundaries 
and fell in a sparkling shower upon her boddice. Then she 
crossed the stile, and the stream, and passed the trees, till she 
found a solitary nook away in the heart of the wood ; and 
there she knelt and prayed. How strong was Ally Fisher 
when she left her retreat ! The arm of Him who is almighty 
was about her. 

Ally Fisher passed with quite as light a foot as usual over 
the dried leaves through which the tender spring-blades were 
peeping, and beyond the border of the wood, till she came 
within sight of one of our beautiful central lakes on the border 
of which the young green was striving with the paUid spoils 
of last year's frost. Ally Fisher was not very observing — 
she was too thoughtful to be observing ; but as she emerged 



ALLY FISHER. 241 

from the wood she saw a person, probably a nurse, walking 
near the lake with a little girl, who danced, and prattled, and 
clapped her tiny hands, now bounding from the path, now 
half hiding her little head in the woman's dress, and then run- 
ning forward with all the guileless glee of a bird or butterfly. 
Ally looked at herj and felt the warm tears creeping to her 
eyes. Why had she never been thus happy? And why 
should that terrible shadow which had rested on her crs.dle, 
darken at this point, so full of strange, wondrous interest, now 
when she was 

" Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet. 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse." 

The tears crept to Ally's eyes ; but they had no time to fall. 
She heard a shriek, and saw the woman cowering over the 
verge of the lake, her hands clasped as though in an ecstasy 
of agonized fear. 

" The child ! " thought Ally, as she sprang forward, new 
life in every limb and lighting up her eye. She was right. 
The little one was just rising to the surface after her first ter- 
rible plunge ; Ally caught a glimpse of a pale, agonized face, 
then a fold of scarlet ; and then all disappeared except the 
successive rings formed by the rippling water. " It is not 
deep, not very deep," she said, half to herself, half to the 
careless nurse, " if I were only taller ! " She stepped into 
the water carefully, as though to insure in the outset a firm 
footing. Another step, and the water grew deeper — another 
— another — the water had arisen above her waist, and her 
slight figure seemed swayed by its undulations. Dare she 
go farther ? Oh, the lake was so still — only a ripple on its 
surface ; and a life — a life at stake ! Again on, one more 
step — the little scarlet dress appeared just before her. But 
one short step more! — she falters, reels — ah, she grasps 
it! — now Ally! see, she pauses deliberately to steady her- 
21 



242 ALLY FISHER. 

self! Her presence of mind, even in the moment of triumph, 
has not Forsaken her, and her foot is still firm. She returns 
slowly, safely to the shore ; and sinks, with her recovered 
human treasure at the feet of the terrified nurse. 

Ally Fisher opened her large, wondering eyes upon a 
strange scene. Her head lay upon a pillow of rich purple 
velvet ; and she turned from her singular couch to magnifi- 
c(!nt folds of drapery ; heavy golden cords half hidden in their 
soft shadows ; rich, massive furniture, the use of which she did 
not understand — all the wonders of this magic palace — quite 
unheeding a kind face Avhich hent anxiously over her. 

" Oh, 1 was so careless, and you so good ! " was the first 
exclamation she heard ; and then from a sofa at the other side 
of the room came a pale, beautiful lady and whispered, " Dear 
cliild ! God ble<;s her ! " in low, tremulous tones, as though 
the terror had not yet gone from her heart. 

" Does she recover ?" inquired another voice. It was that 
of a man ; and, though strong, there was now a subdued 
tremor in it, which gave evidence that the string on which it 
vibrated had been lately jarred by fear and sorrow. " Does 
she recover ? This noble deed has made her ours as Marcia 
is. She shall never go back to that poor hovel again." 

" My mother ! " was Ally's answering exclamation. " Oh, 
she will be so frightened ! I must go to my mother now."' It 
was in vain that the lady and her husband, and even the 
attending physician insisted on her remaining, at least until 
she was quite recovered ; and offered to send for her mother. 
Ally arose to her feet and smiled her usual sad smile. 

" I am well, quite well. It did n't hurt me any ; I was 
only frightened because I thought the poor little girl was 
dead. To be sure, I shouldn't fear the dead, but when I had 
her m my arms — Are you sure she will get well ? " 

" She will ; and it was you who saved her life." 

Ally shuddered. " Uh ! her cheek was so cold ! just like 
little Willie's. But you say she will get well, and I am very 
glad ; though sometimes I think it would be a pleasant thing 



ALLY FISHER. 243 

to die and go to heaven where Jesus Christ is. — It is so dreary 
here ! " she added in a pitiful tone and half musingiy. 

Dame Fisher was surprised to see the family carriage of 
the Burnells draw up at her humble door, and more still sur- 
prised when her own Ally, all in strange garb " a world too 
wide " sprang from it, her pale face really brilliant with ex- 
citement. Ally's large eyes were larger than ever, and the 
heart's light was centred beneath their jetty fringes ; while 
her mouth, the lips no longer .pale, was wreathed with unu- 
sual smiles. 

"Oh, mother ! I have saved a life ! Is not God kind to 
let me do so great a thing ? " 

Strange that neither Ally nor her mother thought of the 
lost school that night, heavy as the disappointment was ! 
Nay, is it strange ? They thought of it in the morning, 
however, and then dame Fisher was much sadder than Ally 
was. 

" So you are to sew your life away," she said despond- 
mgly ; " my poor, poor Ally ! " 

" No, mother ; God will take care of me." 

It was not noon when the family carriage of the Burnells 
again appeared at the door of Billy Fisher's miserable cottage. 

" Mrs. Burnell. It may be. Ally, she will get you the 
school — these rich people have so much influence." 

Mrs. Burnell came to offer Ally, as her husband had prom- 
ised in his first lively emotion of gratitude, a splendid home. 

" You shall share with little Marcia in everything," she 
said. " You shall even divide our love. More, you are older, 
and you shall be considered in everything the elder daughter. 
Come and live with us, dear ; for we should have had no 
child but for you." 

Ally looked at her mother, whose thin face now glowed 
with gratified ambition ; glanced at the broken walls of the 
miserable hovel she called home ; turned from one little half- 
starved figure to another ; and then, approaching the lady, 
said in a low, firm tone, " You are very kind, and I will pray 
God to bless you for it ; but I must not go away from here ! " 



244 ALLY FISHER. 

" Must not ! " 

•' Must not, Ally ! " exclaimed the surprised, disappointed 
mother. 

Ally's voice became choked. " This is a very poor place 
— I never knew how poor until I went into some of the grand 
houses ; but I have always lived in it, and — " 

" But the sewing, and that terrible pain in your side, dear ! " 
interrupted the matron. 

" It Avill be better soon, I think ; and may be I shall not 
have to sew as much now Mary is getting bigger." 

"But, Ally— " 

" Mother, don't drive me away from home." 

" We will give you a home," pleaded the lady, " the home 
you saw yesterday. There you shall have everything you 
can wish ; things much more beautiful than you have ever 
seen in your life ; and little Marcia, whose life you saved, will 
love you, and so will we all." 

" Then who will love my poor, poor mother ? " And Ally 
burst into tears. 

At the commencement of the conference a head had been 
raised from a pile of bed-covering in a corner of the room, and 
a red, bloated face looked out on the group with vague won- 
der. Soon an expression of intelligence began to lighten up 
the heavy eyes, and now and then a trace of something like 
emotion appeared upon the face. At Ally's last words there 
was for a moment a strange, convulsive working of the fea- 
tures, and the head fell heavily back upon the pillow. 

It was in vain that both the lady and dame Fisher pleaded. 
Ally's firm, modest answer was ever the same. " Oh, it was 
nothing ; I could n't let the little girl drown, when it was so 
easy to go into the water. It was nothing ; so I do not deserve 
that beautiful home. I should n't be of any use there either, 
and here I am needed." 

" But I will give you five times the money you could earn 
by sewing," urged the lady, " and you shall bring it all here." 

Ally was for a moment staggered. 

" So you would help us more by going than by staying," 



ALLY FISHER. 245 

added the dame, quite forgetful of self while so anxious for 
ner child's welfare. 

" But mother, who would hold your head when it aches, 
and bathe your temples, and kiss away the pain, and then sit 
and watch you while you sleep? And when the trouble 
comes, who would try to make it light, and help you find all 
the happy things to weigh against it ? And who would sit 
with you at evening when you are so lonely ? Who, mother, 
would read the Bible to you ? For you told me but yester- 
day that your eyes were failing ; and who would — would 
love you, mother ? Oh, don't send me away ! All those 
beautiful things would only make me sorry if you could not 
have them too ; and so you must let me stay here in the old 
house ; for it is the only place where I can be happy. God 
would not love me if I were to leave you with all the children 
to care for, and none to comfort you when you are sad." 

The lady's eyes were quite suffused with the heart's-dew, 
as, with a mental blessing on the young girl's head, and a 
silent determination to reward her self-denying spirit richly, 
she turned away. 

" You have sacrificed yourself for my sake. Ally," sobbed 
the dame, folding her gentle child in her arms ; " Oh, why 
did you do it ? " 

" No, mother, I am happier here, and he " Ally 

pointed to the bed meaningly. " I could n't mention it before 
her." 

" Yes, darling, you are right, as you always are ; he would 
kill himself without you in a week, I know. But, oh, it is a 
dreadful thing — my poor, poor Ally ! " 

Ally was at her sewing, as calm and quiet as though 
nothing unusual had occurred, though there was a singularly 
bright spot on her cheek ; and the dame had busied herself 
with preparing the children's supper, w^hen Billy Fisher crept 
from the bed, and glided half-timidly to the door. 

" Don't go to-night, father," whispered Ally, laying her 
slight hand on his, and fixing her large, mournful eyes on his 
fece most feelingly. " Don't go ; I will help you fix the 
21# 



246 ALLY FISHER 

chessmen you wanted me to do last nignt ; or I will hem the 
pretty new handkerchief I bought for you to-day, and sing 
whatever you like best while I am doing it ; or I will read to 
you from my beautiful library book, or do anything you like 

— only don't go ! It is very lonely here without you, father." 
The lips of the miserable man parted as though he would 

have replied; but the word seemed choking him, and he 
brushed hastily past her. Tears came to Ally's eyes as she 
turned again to her work ; but no one heeded them. 

That evening passed as hundreds of others had done. The 
children were all sent to bed, and then Ally and her mother 
sat down by their one tallow candle to earn bread for them. 

" It is so nice to be together," said Ally, raising a face all 
beaming with gratitude. 

" Yes, but you lose a great deal by it, dear." 

" Oh, no ; I lose nothing. I should have lost a great deal 
if I had gone away from you. Mother, I have been wonder- 
ing since this morning that God has been so kind as to keep 
us together, and I so ungrateful. I never knew how happy 
it made me to be with you till now." 

" We never see half the blessings that God bestows upon 
us, darling." 

Murmurer — you, surrounded by comforts and elegancies, 
feasting on dainties, and rolling in luxuries -^^ oh, could you 
but look in upon dame Fisher's cottage, with its bare, broken 
walls, and scanty furniture ! And yet the poor drunkard's 
wife was really more deeply blest than you — blest with the 
inner wealth of " a meek and quiet spirit." She never inur- 
mured. 

The hour of ten drew near, and Ally's quick ear caught 
the sound of a step upon the door-stone. 

" Father ! he is very early. Oh, I hope he has not " 

She had no time to finish her sentence. The door was 
thrown wide open with a quick, earnest, joyous dash. 

" I have done it. Ally, my bird ! I have done it ! There 

— there — whist! don't look so frightened, pussy; it is noth- 
ing bad — it is something good — very good. It will make 



ALLY FISHER. 247 

your little heart glad, and I ought to make it glad once in 
your sorry life-time, birdie dear. Shall I tell you. Ally ? I 
have taken the step, the step ; and now, darling, your poor 
mother shall have somebody to love her, and so shall you too. 
Oh, it has been a dreadful course ; it has almost broken my 
heart sometimes to think of my miserable ways ; and I have 
felt the worst when you thought I was stupid and did not care. 
Sometimes I have been determined to break away, but then 
I was tempted, and could n't. Now I have done it, never 
another drop to my lips ! — so help me God ! " 

That night there was not so happy a house in all the State 
of New York, as the wretched hovel to which Billy Fisher 
had brought such unexpected joy. And Ally. Oh, no! she 
never regretted having sacrificed her own bright prospects to 
the happiness of those she loved ; for never was human heart 
more deeply blest than gentle, trusting Ally Fisher's. Other 
and more brilliant blessings now cluster around her path ; but 
these are mere trifles compared with that great first one. 

It was thine own work, sweet Ally ; thy never-failing gen- 
tleness it was which won him. Go on, pure-hearted one . 
there is still more good for thee to do. 

" Still thy smile like sunshine dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art." 



EDITH RAY. 

Pity that Albums should have gone out of fashion, 'Bel. 
1 feel like an emigrant revisiting the old homestead, when I 
open the embossed red morocco doors, and see the mystic 
furniture, in black and white, just as it came from the hands 
of the machinists, and yet so unlike what it was. To be sure, 
there are emigrants who have journeyed farther and been 
longer gone ; but Change labors with the rapidity of second 
class Irish fairies, and I find but little as I left it.. Come to 
our nestling-place on the sofa, and let us examine some of 
these tributes from my school-mates. Those delicate little 
crow-quill touches, surmounted by the two turtle doves on a 
green sprig smaller than themselves, and unlike anything that 
ever grew, are Edith Ray's. I have her bright face before 
me now, as it looked when, despite her notions of pretty pen- 
manship, she assumed her own character long enough to give 
that preposterous flourish to the final y ; then clapped her 
dainty little hands, and laughed at her oWn work, as fully 
conscious of its childishness, (billing doves and all,) as such 
wiseacres as you and I, 'Bel, are this morning. I thought 
the whole, especially the doves, miracles of prettiness then ; 
and, strange as it may seem, I am no happier since I have 
discovered that they are things to laugh at. 

Edith Ray was a joyous creature, with a heart so brimming 
over with mirthfulness, that every one who came into her 
presence caught the infection. She was gentle and delicate 
too, and yet fearless as a young eagle ; doing whatever she 
purposed in the face of all opposition; and telling the most 
unwelcome truths, particularly when she might thus unmask 
hypocrisy, or expose anything mean and cringing. Yet 
everybody loved her ; for although she possessed a dangerous 



EDirn RAY. 249 

power, it was never called into exercise for the purpose of 
crushing ; being kept in check by a kind and affectionate 
heart. Edith Ray, as all who saw her would be very likely 
to suppose, was an only child, and quite an heiress withal ; 
so it is not strange that she should take a conspicuous place 
among the Alderbrook belles. The schoolmaster used to 
quote poetry to her, and bring her bouquets. Mr. Sherrill, a 
dashing young law student, was the companion of all her 
horse-back rides, and walked with her to the church-door 
every Sabbath morning, with the evident hope of one day 
handing her in very gracefully ; and the doctor, the grocer, 
and a "wild slip" of a dry goods merchant, had severally 
shown an interest in Mr. Ray's affairs truly gratifying. Yet 
Edith would parody the schoolmaster's verses most ludicrously 
to his face ; give her gallant squire the slip whenever it suited 
her convenience ; and ridicule the pretensions of the others 
outright. It is strange that the Argus-eyed supervisors of our 
little village had no suspicions as to the real cause of Edith's 
indifference to her admirers ; but certain it is that a pale, stu- 
dent-like face passed in and out of Mr. Ray's door, particularly 
on rainy evenings, and at other times when gayer ones would 
not be likely to interrupt the visit, without exciting the least 
remark. Perhaps it was because all had decided that the 
widow's son never would introduce a new mistress into the 
parsonage ; and perhaps the improbability of the grave young 
pastor's taste leading him to make such a selection. What- 
ever the cause might have been, there was certainly an im- 
portant, life-lasting secret locked fast in the hearts of Mr. Rob- 
son and bright Edith Ray. The young lovers were strikingly 
contrasted in outer seeming ; but there was a rich under-cur- 
rent in the characters of both that perfectly harmonized ; so 
Edith feared only for her o^vn volatility when she gave her 
heart into another's keeping, and the young pastor prayed 
only that he might be able to repay the trust. The betrothal 
passed, and still the secret was not discovered ; though Edith 
had unconsciously assumed a gentler manner, and a sweeter 
expression, which could not fail to excite observation. 



250 EDITH RAT. 

As I said before, Edith Ray feared nothing but to do 
wrong; and her daring had been so much the subject of 
remark, that she feh some pride in exhibiting her courage ; a 
quality which her young friends took every opportunity to 
test. Unknown to her companions, however, there was one 
point on which Edith was vulnerable ; she had, Avhen a little 
child, seen her own mother stretched out in death — she 
remembered the rigid limbs, with their white covering, giving 
a fearful mystery to their half-revealed outlines — and any- 
thing that bore the slightest resemblance to such a form, in- 
spired her with horror. 

It was on a fine moonlight night in midwinter, that a social 
group had assembled in Mr. Ray's parlor ; and Edith, unlike 
her wont when Mr. Robson was present, had been the gayest 
of the party. As the evening drew to a close, Mr. Sherrill 
expressed a wish to see a book of engravings that had disap- 
peared from the parlor ; a desire which Edith declared such 
an evidence of improved taste, that it should be instantly 
gratified. She tripped lightly from the room ; and as she 
disappeared we all observed that Sherrill crept carefully 
toward the door. The next moment a short, shrill cry, fol- 
lowed by a low, half-choked sound, as of one strangling, 
brought us to our feet. With one bound poor Sherrill was in 
the adjoining apartment ; but he was scarce 'in advance of the 
young pastor. The rest of us followed hastily, alarmed at, 
we knew not what. But we soon knew. Upon a long table 
lay extended an object covered with a white cloth, with the 
moonbeams flickering over it, revealing the fearful outlines 
of a human figure with apparent certainty. Before this 
ciouched young Edith Ray, with her fingers clenched in the 
masses of long hair descending on each side of her face, her 
eyes distended, and a white foam wreathing her motionless 
lips. 

'' £dith ! my own Edith ! " whispered Robson, in a voice 
hearse with agony. 

Edith started to her feet, and the mocking walls echoed her 
wild unnatural laugh. 



EDITH RAY. 251 

" Look, Edith — look ! " entreated Shcrrill ; " it is noth- 
ing ;" and he shook out two or three cloaks artfully arranged. 
" Nothing but these — I did it, Edith — I did it — I put them 
there to scare you ! " 

Edith only laughed again. 

Mr. Robson drew her arm within his own, and led her 
quietly back into the parlor ; and poor Sherrill followed and 
crouched at her feet, beseeching her but to speak one word, 
only one word just to show that he had not murdered her. 
But the stricken girl only twined her hair helplessly about 
her fingers, and smiled. 

Three years have rolled away, but they have wrought no 
change on the darkened spirit of Edith Ray. Mr. Robson 
still occupies the parsonage, but he has grown graver, and 
gentler, and more spiritual than ever ; and the young repress 
their smiles and soften their voices when he comes near ; for 
untold sorrow is a sacred thing. The neighbors say that Par- 
son Robson is wholly devoted to his books, and the care of 
his flock. But they make a marvel of one thing. It is a 
great Avonder to them what is the attraction at poor Mr. Ray's, 
that he should spend his two hours there every evening. 
They never saw the stricken Edith at his feet, gazing up into 
his face with an expression of childish confidence ; nor heard 
her low, mournful murmur when he went away. Our young 
pastor is ever found among the sick and sorrowing ; but every 
effort to draw him into social life fails ; for the poor wreck, 
which clings to him .even in her idiocy, is still borne upon his 
heart. 



KITTY COLEMAN. 

An arrant piece of mischief was that Kitty Coleman, with 
her winsome ways and wicked little heart ! Those large, be- 
wildering eyes ! how they poured out their stTange eloquence, 
looking as innocent all the while as thO'Ugh they had peeped 
from their amber-fringed curtains quite by mistake, or only I 
to join in a quadrille with the sunlight ! And then those 
warm, ripe lips ! the veritable 

" rosy bed, 
That a bee would choose to dream in." 

That is, a well-bred bee, which cared to pillow his head on 
pearls white as snow, on the heaven-side of our earthly at- 
mosphere, and sip the honey of Hybla from the balmy air 
fanning his slumbers. And so wild and unmanageable was 
she ! Oh ! it was shocking to '^proper people ! " Why, she 
actually laughed aloud — Kitty Coleman did! I say Kitty, 
because in her hours of frolicking, she was very like a juve- 
nile puss, particularly given to fun-loving : and, moreover, be- 
cause everybody called her Kitty, but aunt Martha. She was 
a well-bred woman, who disapproved of loud laughing, romp- 
ing, and nicknaming, as she did of other crimes; so she 
always said. Miss Catharine. People always have their trials 
in this world, and Kitty Coleman (so she'finnly believed) 
would have been perfectly happy but for aunt Martha. She 
thought, even, that Miss Catharine's hair — those long, golden 
locks, like rays of floating sunshine wandering about her shoul- 
ders, should be gathered up into a comb ; and once the little lady 
was so obliging as to make a trial of the scheme ; but, at the 
first bound she made after Rover, the burnished cloud broke 
from its ignoble bondage, and the little silver comb nestled 
down in the long grass forever more. Kitty was a sad romp. 



KITTY COLEMAN. 25Jl 

ll is a hard thing to say of one we all loved so well, but aunt 
Martha said it, and shook her head, and sighed the while ; 
and the squire, aunt Martha's brother, said it, and spread open 
his arms for his pet to spring into ; and careful old ladies said 
it, and said, too, what a pity it is that young ladies now-a-days 
should have no more regard for propriety ! and even Enoch 
Short, the great phrenologist, buried his bony fingers in those 
dainty locks, that none but a phrenologist had a right to touch ; 
and, waiting only for the long, silvery laugh, that interrupted 
his scientific researches, to subside, declared that her organ 
of mirlhfulness was very strikingly developed. It was then 
a matter past controversy ; and, of course, Kitty was expected 
to do what nobody else could do, and say what nobody else 
had a right to say ; and the sin of all was chargeable to a 
strange idiosyncrasy, a peculiar conformation of the mind, or 
rather brain, over which she had no control ; and so Kitty 

was forgiven, forgiven by all but we had a story to tell. 

I have heard that Cupid is blind, but of that I believe not 
a word. Indeed, I have confirmation strong, that the mali- 
cious little knave has a sort of clairvoyance, and can see a 
heart where few would expect one to exist ; for, did he not 
perch himself, now in the eye, and now on the lip of Kitty 
Coleman, and, with a marvellously steady aim, (imitating a 
personage a trifle more dreaded,) 

" cut down all. 
Both great and small ? " 

Blind ! no, no ! If the laughing rogue did fail in a single 
instance, it was not that he aimed falsely, or had emptied his 
quiver before. Harry Raymond must have had a tough heart, 
and so the arrow rebounded ! Oh ! a very stupid fellow was 
that Harry Raymond, and Kitty hesitated not to say it ; for, 
after walking and riding with her all through the leafy month 
of June, what right had he to grow dignified all of a sudden, 
and look upon her, when he did at all, as though she had 
been a naughty child that deserved tying up ? To be sure, 
Harry Raymond was a scholar, and in love, (as everybody 
oo 



254 KITTY COLEMAN. 

said,) with his books ; but pray, what book is there of them 
all, that could begin to compare with Kitty Coleman? 

There used to be delightful little gatherings in our village, 
and Kitty must of course be there ; and Harry, stupid as he 
was, always went too. People were of course glad to see 
him, for the honor was something, if the company had other 
wise been ever so undesirable. But Kitty hesitated not to 
show her dislike. She declared he did not know how to be 
civil; and then she sighed, (doubtlessly at the boorishness of 
scholars in general, and this one in particular,) then she 
laughed, so long and musically, that the lawyer, the school- 
master, the four clerks, the merchant, and Lithper Lilhpet, 
the dandy, all joined in the chorus ; though not one of them 
could have told what the lady laughed at. Harry Raymond 
only looked towards the group, muttered something in a very 
ill-natured tone about butterflies, and then turned his back 
upon them and gazed out of the window, though it was very 
certain he could see nothing in the pitchy darkness. It was 
very strange that Kitty Coleman should have disregarded en- 
tirely the opinion of such a distinguished gentleman as Harry 
Rajanond ; for he had travelled, and he sported an elegant 
wardrobe, and owned a gay equipage, a fine house and 
grounds, " and everything that was handsome." But she 
only laughed the louder when she saw that he was displeased. 
Indeed, his serious face seemed to infuse the concentrated, 
double-distilled spirit of mirthfulness into her ; and a more 
frolicksome creature never existed than Kitty was — until he 
was gone. Then, all of a sudden, she grew fatigued and 
must go home immediately. , 

Ah, Kitty ! Kitty ! thine hour had come ; and thou wcrt 
learning now what wiser ones had long been endeavoring to 
teach thee — that thy mirth was but "as the crackling of 
thorns under a pot," soulless. 

It was as much on Harry Raymond's account as her own, that 
aunt Martha was distressed at the hoydenish manners of hel 
romping niece. But Kitty insisted that her manners were not 
hoydenish, and that if her heart overflowed, it was not her fault. 



KITTY COUEMAN. 255 

She could not shut up all her glad feelings within her ; they 
would leap hack at tlie call of their kindred gushing from 
other bosoms, and to all the beautiful things of creation as 
joyous in their mute eloquence as she was. Besides, the 
wicked little Kitty Coleman was very angry that aunt Mar- 
tha should attempt to govern her conduct by the likings of 
Harry Raymond ; and, to show that she did not care an apple- 
blossom for him, nor his opinions either, she was more unrea- 
sonably gay in his presence than anywhere else. But, what- 
ever Harry Raymond might think, he did not slander the little 
lady. Indeed, he never was heard to speak of her but once, 
and then he said she had no soul. A pretty judge of soul, 
he, to be sure ! a man without a smile ! How can people 
who go through the world, cold and still, like the clods they 
tread upon, pretend to know anything about soul ? 

But, notwithstanding the enmity of the young people, 
Harry Raymond used to go to Squire Coleman's, and talk all 
the evening with the squire and aunt Martha, while his big, 
black eyes turned slowly in the direction Kitty moved, like 
the bewitching sylphide that she was ; but Kitty did not look 
at him, not she ! What right had a stranger, and her father's 



guest too, to act out his reproof in such a manner? 

When Harry went away, he would bow easily and grace- 
fully to the old people, but to the young lady he found it dif- 
ficult to bend. Conduct like this provoked Kitty Coleman be- 
yond endurance ; and, one evening after the squire and spinster 
had left her alone, she sat down, and in very spite sobbed away 
as though her little heart would break. Now it happened 
that the squire had lent his visiter a book thai; evening, which, 
strange enough for such a scholar, he had forgotten to take 
with him ; but luckily Harry remembered it before it was too 
late, and turned upon his heel. The door was open, and so 
he stepped at once into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her 
feet at the intrusion, and crushed with her fingers two tears 
that were just ready to launch themselves on the roundest and 
rosiest cheek in the world ; but she might have done better 
than blind herself, for, by some means, her foot came in un- 



256 KITTY COLEMAN. 

intentional contact with aunt Martha's rocking-chair, and her 
forehead, in consequence, found itself resting very unceremo- 
niously on the neck of Rover. It is very awkward to be sur- 
prised m the luxurious abandon of tears at any time ; and it 
is a trifle more awkward still to stumble when you wish to 
be particularly dignified, and then be raised by the last person 
in the world from whom you would receive a favor. Kitty 
felt the awkwardness of her position too much to speak, and 
of course Harry could not release her until he knew whether 
she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the crim- 
son blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry's face 
immediately took the same hue, probably from sympathy. 
Kitty looked down until a golden arc of fringe rested lovingly 
on its glowing neighbor ; and Harry, too, looked down on 
Kitty Coleman's face. Then came a low, soft whisper — low 
and soft as the breathing of an infant ; and (poor Kitty miisi 
have been hurt and needed support) an arm stole softly around 
her waist, and dark locks mingled with her sunny ones, and 
Kitty Coleman hid her face — not in her hands. 

Empty gayety had failed to win the heart of Harry Ray- 
mond ; but the tears were triumphant. 

Harry forgot his book again that night, and never thought 
of it till the squire put it into his hand the next morning ; for 
Harry visited the squire very early the next morning. Very 
likely he came on business, for they had a private interview ; 
and the good old gentleman slapped him on the shoulder, 
and said, "with all my heart;" and aunt Martha looked as 
glad as propriety would let her. As for Kitty Coleman, she 
did not show her face, not she ; for she knew they were talk- 
ing about her — such a meddler was Harry Raymond ! But, 
as the arrant mischief-maker bounded from the door, there 
was a great rustling among the rose-bushes, insomuch that a 
shower of bright blossoms descended from them, and reddened 
the dewy turf; and Harry turned a face brimming over with 
joyfulness to the fragrant thicket, and went to search out the 
cause of the disturbance. 

Now it happened that Kitty Coleman had hidden in this 



KITTY COLEMAN. 257 

very thicket, and she was, of course, found out ; and — I do 
not think that poor Kitty ever quite recovered from the effects 
of her fall, for the arm of Harry Raymond seemed very ne- 
cessary to her forever after. 

The mirth and mischief? 

Oh, they vanished with the falsehood which supported 
their semblance, when the first dawnings of love made the 
heart serious ; for love and happiness always fling the weight 
of feeling upon gayety, smothering its vain sparkles. The 
rich draught is never in the foam and bubbles that dance 
upon the brim. The heart never laughs ; but the deeper tfie 
sunshine that blesses it, the less it looks to outer things for 
blessings ; and so the world never prizes its light. The gay 
may have hearts, but they have never learned to use them — 
never learned to think, to feel, to love. Who will may imitate 
Kitty Coleman and the butterflies ; but there are those who 
are wiser, and love better the sweet seriousness beaming like 
the mellow August moon-ray above hidden heart-treasures. 
22* 



258 



ROBERT FLEMMING; 

A VERITABLE TALK, SHOWING 

"WHAT THAT BOY DID COME TO AT LAST." 

" Rachel," said a young farmer to his wife, as he entered 
the house, leading by the hand a curly-headed little fellow, 
with a particularly bright eye and a mouth with a particularly 
roguish curl to it — "Rachel, you were wishing yesterday 
you had a boy ; I have brought one home to you." 

The young woman dropped the broom which she was 
wielding with much spirit, and turning short round, placed 
her two bared arms akimbo. "Well, Eben Howe, you are 
just the strangest man that 1 ever saw. What do you sup- 
pose I can do with a boy, when I have everything under the 
sun to do, and nobody to help ? " 

" Why, it is to help you that I have brought him home, 
Rachel." 

" Help ! yes, I '11 warrant me, such help as I get from 
everybody that comes into this house. You brought grand- 
mamma to help me, too, I suppose, and " 

" Rachel ! " exclaimed the young man, in a tone of sorrow- 
ful surprise. 

" Not that I mind the trouble with her," resumed the wife, 
not much abashed ; " there 's nothing that I like better than 
waiting on grandmamma ; but you Ve no idea, Eben, of the 
wear and tear of the slavish life I lead. Here 's the baby has 
done nothing but cry all day long " 

"Well, well, Rachel; never mind " 

"Never mind! Oh, yes, that's always the way. If I 
should kill myself, you 'd say ' never mind ! ' " 

" I mean don't mind anything about the boy. I got him to 
assist you; but if you think he would make trouble " 

"Make trouble, Eben ? Why, I would rather do every 



ROBERT FLEMMING. 259 

chore myself than have the trouble of following after a boy, 
watching to see that things were done right, and slaving 
myself to death to do his washing and mending." 

*' Very well, Kachel, I can take him back to-morrow, when 
I go to carry the wool to Smith's. I wish we could contrive 
some vmy of lightening your cares, though. If you would 
only consent to hire a girl " 

"Hire! No — no; I 'm not the lazy woman you take me 
for, Eben Howe. Hire, indeed I Why, I should have the 
whole neighborhood laughing at me, as they do at that shift- 
less Mrs. Wood. No; I'll work my fingers off up to the joints, 
before I '11 have it said that Rachel Ellis set up for a lady as 
soon as she got married, and ruined her husband by her 
extravagance." 

" Nobody would say that, Rachel. But supposing we adopt 
a little girl, would she make as much trouble as a boy?" 

" A thousand times more. I would n't bring up a girl for 
the world." 

Mr. Howe glanced at the cradle. 

" One not m.y own, I mean. A girl could n't cut wood and 
take care of the cattle when you were gone." 

" And a boy could." 

"Yes; and — he could look after the baby." 

" Certainly." 

" And help scrub floor." 

"Of course." 

" And run of all sorts of errands." 

" And bring water from the spring." 

"And — and — oh, a boy could do a great deal. Then I 
could alter over your old clothes for him, and we never have 
a scant table ; so the keeping would n't be much." 

" A mere trifle. But consider the trouble to yourself, 
Rachel." 

"Why, as to that, I am pretty strong yet, and shouldn't 
mind a little more work, if the boy was faithful and willing. 
I hope he did n't come from a poor, miserable hut, like the 



i!bU ROBERT FLEMMING. 

Murphys ; we never could break him of his bad habits, if he 
did." 

" The boy has been well taught, I am certain, Rachel. If 
he had bad habits, he would be unlike " 

Howe hesitated to say whom, and his wife, without noting 
it, inquired — "What kind of a bargain have you mjide, 
Eben?" 

" If we conclude it is best, we can have him three months 
on trial " 

" Three months, and haying and harvesting all over ! 
Why, a baby could do all the chores we shall have to do." 

"Oh, that is of no great consequence " 

" I tell you, Eben Howe, it is of a great deal of consequence 
when you take any one on trial, that there should be plenty 
of work to do, and that of the right kind." 

"Yes — yes, I know it, Rachel; but if three months don't 
satisfy us, I presume we can try him a year ; we can keep 
him as long as we please, and send him away when we please. 
Poor woman ! she has not the power to choose," he added, in 
an under tone. 

"Ah, that is something like. What then ?" 

"Why, if we finally conclude to keep him, we are to con- 
sider him as our own boy, treat him well " 

" I hope we are not the folks to treat him ill." 

" I am sure you will not, Rachel. Then we are to feed 
and clothe him only " 

" Only ! I guess you 'd not say only, if you knew what 
that would be. He '11 wear out clothes faster than I can 
make them, I '11 warrant, and eat as much as a man." 

" So you think it will be very expensive to keep him?" 

" No, not expensive exactly — no, not at all. I told you 
that I could manage the clothing part nicely, and one mouth 
in a family where there 's always plenty don't make much 
diiference." 

" But the trouble to you ?" 

" Oh, I should n't mind it much. I suppose we can keep 
him till he 's twenty-one ? " 



ROBERT FLEMMING. 261 

"Yes, if he is bound." 

"Well, we won't have him bound. I would n't have a 
bound-boy about the house. He shall be free to go any miu' 
ute he chooses ; though, to be sure, if he prove to be a good 
boy, we will keep hitn to bring up, and do well by him, won't 
we, Eben ? " 

" That can be decided hereafter ; but there 's one more item 
in the bargain. We are to send him to school three months 
every year." 

" To school, indeed ! And where 's the money to come 
from, and the — and the — ? Now, Eben Howe, caw you 
think of doing such a foolish thing as that ? Three months 
every year ! A quarter of the time idled away, books torn 
and money spent, and all for nothing but to keep a lazy, good- 
for-nothing boy away from his work ! " 

" I should n't like to have any one about my house that 
could n't read." 

" Mercy me, I hope not — that couldn't read the Bible! 
We are not quite such heathen yet. But do tell what 's the 
use of so much schooling?" 

" It is no more than I hope all American boys, however 
poor, will be able to receive, Rachel. Education, you know 
the lecturer told us last evening, is the 'freeman's birthright.' 
What say you, Rachel ; shall we keep him?" 

" Well, I don't know as we shall do any better. Have you 
had your supper, boy ? " 

During this long dialogue, the little fellow, now for the 
first time addressed, had stood digging with his bare toes into 
a crack between the boards of the floor, his roguish black eye 
fixed upon a sleepy dog that lay stretched in the corner, and 
his fore-finger very intent on poking itself through the braids 
of his straw hat. Thus called upon, however, he turned his 
little round face for the first time upon Mrs. Howe, and while 
his cherry cheek became purple, and his plump, pouting lips 
rolled back slillfarther, very deliberately answered, " I guess 
I shan't stay here ; I don't like to be scolded at." 

" Robert ! " exclaimed Mr. Howe, in alarm — " Robert !'* 



262 ROBERT FLEMMING. 

" Well taught, indeed ! " began his wife, in an angry, tone 
"Well — well, Eben Howe " 

" My name is n't ' Well Eben Howe,' " said the little fel- 
low, straightening himself up and drawing down the corners 
of his mouth, as though he had received a great insult, " my 
name is Robert Flemming ! " 

" Robert Flemming, eh ? " laughed Mrs. Howe, excited to 
mirth, in spite of herself, by the look of offended dignity 
which accompanied the boy's disclaimer. '^Master Robert 

Flemming, I suppose we must call you, and . Bless me, 

the child is eating up his OAvn hat ! Ha, ha ! " 

The boy looked up into the face of the speaker, as though 
unable to comprehend such a singular character, then, appar- 
ently satisfied with his scrutiny, joined his clear, silvery voice 
with hers in a very merry laugh ; and springing forward, laid 
his curly head on the neck of the dog, and a moment after, 
was rolling over the floor, engaged in a rare frolic with his 
new companion. The baby, as a child nearly a year old was 
called, hearing the racket, raised its little night-capped head 
from the cradle, and clapped together its dimpled hands, and 
crowed with infinite delight; while grandmamma, crippled by 
age and rheumatism, hobbled forward and stood in the door- 
way, joining, with her cracked, hollow voice, in the general 
expression of mirth. Mr. Howe, too, laughed, amused at the 
turn affairs had taken no less than by the gambols of the boy 
and dog, till at last recollecting himself, he called Jowler 
away, and patting Robert affectionately on the head, bade 
him bring his bundle from the cart and sto\y it away in the 
loft, which was to be his sleeping-place. 

Robert Flemming was a beautiful boy (if health and hap- 
piness can shed beauty on a face made up of rather irregular 
features) of eight, possessed of his full share of animal spirits, 
his young head overshadowed by the clouds of an unusually 
dark fortune, but with a heart that bounded as lightly in his 
bosom as ever heart could bound. His mother was a delicate 
young creature, that had been made a wife before she was 
capable of comprehending the duties and responsibilities of 



ROBERT FLEMMING. 263 

the station : and now her loving heart was well nigh crushed 
beneath the weight of her many cares, and she labored and wept 
from morning till night, and all night long upon her pillow 
strained her aching head with visionary projects that the com- 
ing light was sure to dissipate. The father of little Robert was 
one" of those who, perhaps as often as better men, lead to the 
altar the gentle and pure-hearted, — a man of gross appetites 
and feelings, devoid of that refinement which nature herself 
grants most of her children, a slave to his passions and a 
hopeless drunkard, 

Ebenezer Howe had known Mrs. Flemming in the days 
of childhood, and his own benevolent heart induced him to 
relieve her of her heaviest burthen, the care of a bold-spirited 
boy, who would soon be grown beyond her influence. Yet 
the poor mother, notwithstanding her own destitute circum- 
stances, had stipulated for the usual privileges allowed a boy 
in his situation, and gained a promise that his education 
should not be neglected. " For," said she, " he is a wild 
boy and a careless boy, though a better heart never beat ; but 
I don't know what the poor little fellow will come to at last. 
I have taught him to read, myself, while I sat sewing for 
bread ; and I would work still harder and send him to school, 
rather than to have him grow up in ignorance." 

Mr. Howe too well understood his wife's foibles to make 
known to her the true reason of his taking a boy to " bring 
up ;" and so he treated it as a matter of interest and conve- 
nience merely, trusting that the child himself would soon 
enlist her better feelings in his welfare. Mrs. Howe was not 
ai unkind womgji as far as action was concerned, l.ut sne 
owned a tongue that was incorrigible. Never human being 
was so difRcult to please if the fault-finding were left to her- 
self; and yet she was a wonderful adept at smoothing away 
difficulties and removing even her own objections to a plan 
when she heard them from the lips of another. Her benevo- 
lence, which was oftentimes real and heartfelt, was subject to 
the whimsical variations of her fitful nature ; for she was 
always capricious and sometimes unreasonably exacting. But 



264 ROBERT FLEMMING. 

of all good housewives Mrs. Howe was the very best. Hef t 

table linen was as white as the driven snow, and her table 

oh, it would have gladdened any stomach not perverted by 
French cookery to look upon it. Then her floors (she 
wouldn't have such a dirty thing as a carpet — not she) were 
scrubbed with soap and sand every morning, and her chairs 
bottomed with basket work, her pine mantelpiece and cupboard 
slielves had entirely lost the yellow hue peculiar to the wood, 
and vied with her carefully bleached window-curtains in 
whiteness. Now all this could not be accomplished without 
a vast amount of labor; and hence Mrs. Howe's cares, of 
which her husband had spoken so feelingly. Yet no one, who 
had once looked on the plump, rosy face and robust figure of 
the young wife, would fail to laugh at the idea of her being 
careworn. 

Mrs. Howe soon began to love little Robert very dearly, , 
though he kept her in constant fear by his carelessness, andl 
every day she was heard to wonder what that boy would 1 
come to. If he attempted to bring the castor to the table he :; 
was sure to drop it ; the meat always got burned when he was ? 
stationed to watch it ; the wood that he cut was either too j 
large or made into fine splinters ; and when he milked, if the ' 
cow neglected to set her foot in the pail, Jowler, who was everr 
by his side in field, house or barn-yard, substituted his nose , 
and paw, placing it in the condition of the country maid's in i 
the spelling-book. Yet Robert was not an ungrateful lad ; 
and when Mr. Howe talked seriously to him of his careless- 
ness, he would make — oh, such firm resolves never, never to 
cause his kind benefactor another moment &f trouble, that no 
one, could those resolves have been rendered visible, would 
have doubted his reformation. But, alas for Robert ! no 
sooner did Jowler rub his cold nose against his hand, or little 
Hetty crow from the cradle, than the admonitory voice of his 
master was drowned in his own mirthful shout, and his ad- 
monitions entirely obliterated from memory. Mrs. Howe 
scolded and flattered by turns, now threatening to send him 
home, again raising her hand to give him a blow, which the 



KOBERT FLEMMING. 265 

little fellow always contrived to dodge, and at other times 
laughing immoderately at the amusing nature of his blunders. 
If Robert could have been spoiled, this was, of all others, the 

Ivery place for doing it ; but somehow every influence over 
him seemed powerless either to sober or corrupt his heart. 
So it still remained a great mystery to Mrs. Howe and to Mr. 
I Howe, and to some of the Howes' less interested neighbors, 
I what that boy would come to at last. " There is enough in 

!him" was a very common remark, " but — ."' Then followed 
an ominous shake of the head. Certainly Robert Flemming 
was not in a position to have his talents, if talents he had, 
understood and developed. Perhaps it was the position which 
t shadowed his promise. 

I . What an oddity is a country newspaper ! — always retail- 

i ing second-hand news that is news no longer, relating anec- 

; dotes that have been fifty times repeated, and reviving old 

j worn-out tales which would otherwise go down to oblivion. 

I And yet, somehow, this news is always worth hearing, these 

I , anecdotes are at least as Avitty as some of the new ones, and 

jr; these tales are very apt to be sensible and moral. But one 

{ , thing is certain — nowhere will you find better informed peo- 

. ! pie — that is, those who better understand all the principal 

, , movements of the day, whether political, moral or religious, 

than the readers of a country newspaper. The reason may 

be that they have so little else to read. At any rate, that was 

why little Robert Flemming pored so untiringly over the two 

sheets which weekly found their way into Mr. Howe's dwell- 

ing. About the time the newspaper was expected to arrive, 

^ it was m vain that Mr. Howe issued his orders and Mrs. 

Howe scolded, in vain did Jowler jump and Hetty crow. 

^ Robert responded to each, but not heartily ; Le said, " I will, 

, sir," to Mr. Howe ; " Yes'em," to Mrs. Howe ; twisted Jow- 

. ler's collar about his unconscious hands till the poor dog was 

half choked ; cried " Bo-peep " to Hetty through his fingers 

when his head was turned the other way, and, in the midst 

I of the whole, darted off to the road to look for the post-boy. 

' "Well," said Mrs. Howe, one day, when this had occurred 



266 ROBERT FLEMMING. 

at precisely the moment when she was wanting a pail of wa- 
ter — " Well, if this is n't enough to wear out the patience of 
Job ! I don't know what that boy will come to at last, but — ;' 
then followed a solemn shake of the head. " He is the worst 
boy in the neighborhood, and I can't bear any longer with 
him, I am sure I can't. I wish all the newspapers were burnt 
up." 

" I was just thinking," was the quiet response, " that the 
year will be out soon, and — " 

" You don't think of stopping the paper ? " 

" It might be well to stop it for a quarter, for Robert is get- 
ting very troublesome, and we should neither of us like to part 
with him just now." 

" Really, Eben Howe, I should n't think that of you, after 
your grand notions about schooling and such like things. 
Why, do you think I would keep house without as much as 
one paper ? It 's but little time I get to read, to be sure, such i 
a dog's life I lead of it ; but I should be ashamed to own we 
were such heathen as not to take a newspaper." 

" Well, what shall we do, Rachel ? " 

" Do ? Why, it is pretty government that you have, M 
must say, to let a boy like that ride over you rough-shod ! I 'dl 
tie him to the bed-post, if I could n't do anything else with i 
him." 

" I don't know of anything that would be likely to please 
him better." 

" Now, Eben, that is going a little too far. I know Rob- 
ert's faults as well as anybody, but it can't be said that he is 
a lazy boy. He does twice as much as Joseph Smith, and 
Joe is four years older than he. No — no; let Robert be 
what he may, he is industrious — I '11 say that for him." 

" Yes, industrious enough when he takes the fit ; but look 
at him now^ ;" and Mr. Howe pointed to the roadside, where 
Robert, perched upon the fence, was eagerly unfolding his ' 
damp paper. 

This was the signal for an attack upon the boy; and his: 
capricious mistress wheeled about as readily as was her wont 



ROBERT FLEMMING. 267 

Robert obeyed her boisterous call, though rather hesitatingly ; 
and, being in the midst of a spirited description of a tiger hunt, 
he did not raise his eyes, but read as he walked slowly to the 
house. 

" Come, go to work, you good-for-nothing blockhead ! " 
exclaimed the vixen. " Do you suppose we are to give you a 
good home and clothe and feed you for nothing ? " 

" Yes'em ! " replied Robert, mechanically ; for the tiger 
had just turned about ready for a spring upon her pursuers, 
and the story had become intensely interesting. 

This time Robert's art as a dodger failed, or it may be that 
^e neglected to use it, for Mrs. Howe's hand came down cer- 
tainly not very gently on his ear, which so surprised the ab- 
sent-minded young gentleman that he gave a scream and a 
leap, alighting at last upon poor Jowler's paw. The yell of 
the dog, together with the instability of his footing, induced 
Robert to takp another step, which brought him in contact 
with the cradle ; and the next moment he found himself on 
the other side, little Hetty kicking and screaming beside him, 
and Jowler nosing about and frolicking in the midst as though 
all this was to him rare sport. The entrance of a neighbor 
at this juncture was like slipping from the hands of the hang- 
man to Master Robert, for Mrs. Howe was obliged to soothe 
the baby, and Mr. Howe to entertain the visitor. " I don't 
know what that boy will come to yet," was all he heard as he 
made his exit, grasping the unfortunate cause of all his diffi- 
culties with both hands. 

Robert profited wonderfully by his three months at school , 
and Mrs. Howe felt almost a mother's pride wliile listening 
to his praises. Yet, morning, noon and night, as regularly 
as the recurrence of his meals, came the scolding ; so that, 
in process of time, he became quite accustomed to it, and 
would have felt much surprise at its omission. But notwith- 
standing Robert gained honor in the district school, it would 
not balance the dishonor he gained out of it ; for wasn't it he 
that coaxed the boys away to the pond to slide, the day they 
nil fell in and got such a wetting? — and wasn't it he that 



268 ROBERT FLEMMING. 

lamed Squire White's pony when he made the poor, awk- 
ward beast enact Bucephalus, to the terror as well as admira- 
tion of the whole school ? To be sure, in the first case, he 
risked his own life and displayed as much presence of mind 
as ingenuity in saving his companions ; and, in the other, he 
took untiring care of the injured limb till it was quite well 
again. But what had that to do with the matter ? The mis- 
chief was done, and done by Robert, and everybody wondered 
what- that shockingly bad, hare-brained boy would come to. 
But the worst of it was, they wondered what made Mr. Howe 
keep him — a wonder which, since Mr. Howe himself joined 
in it, was like to prove a serious affair to the young scape- 
grace. To be sure, he was always contriving improvements 
— some useful, some of them complete failures ; but what did 
Mr. Howe want of a boy to make wind-mills, plant trees in 
the yard, find all the boys in the neighborhood in hand-sleds 
and balls, and ride the unbroken colt without a saddle ? Rob- 
ert was industrious, nobody could gainsay that ; but such 
industry ! Ha declared it was the dullest thing in the world I ; 
to saw wood all day, unless he might be allowed to spoil the 
saw by diversions in favor of the line of beauty, which Rob- 
ert knew even in babyhood was not a straight line ; and pick- 
ing stones in the meadow, when no opportunity was allowed ; 
him for building palaces and pyramids, was an employment 
he detested. Mr, Howe was of the opinion that boys should 
never think of anything but what they are bidden to do; and 
so Robert's extra services, particularly when they encroached 
upon the time that should have been devoted to other things, 
all went for nothing ; yet he could not bear to send the boy 
away, for he was the best-hearted little fellow in the world, 
and in one case, if no other, showed that he could be careful. 
Little Hetty, no longer a baby, followed him about as con- 
stantly as did old Jowler ; and carefully indeed, did Master 
Robert guard her ; carefully did he lift her over the mud, 
finding a safe spot for her tiny foot on the dry ground, or seat- t 
ing her on the soft moss while he gathered buttercups and i 
daisies for her ; and then he led her gently by the hand, and 1 



ROBERT FLEMMING. 269 

pulled down the berry bushes that she might pick the fruit 
with her own fingers, while he warned her against the thorns, 
and drew her little red blanket about her shoulders lest she 
should suffer from the cool air. 

But the time at last arrived when Robert Flemming was to 
take leave of his kind master and benefactor. To be sure he 
was not twenty-one, but the farmer concluded as he had set 
his heart on going, there was no use in detaining him, though 
the sacrifice was much greater than he had anticipated 
" V)\\\. it is my mind, Robert, that you had better stick to farm- 
ing-," he remarked, shaking his head gravely ; " it is the most 
honorable and honest of all callings, and can never disgrace 
anybody. 

Mrs. Howe thought him an ungrateful wretch, to forsake 

the house that had sheltered him so many years ; talked pa- 

tlictically of the unsatisfying nature of the world that he was 

: going out to try, and at last concluded by a burst of tears and 

; a speech, in which were mingled so much invective, affection 

and sad apprehensions for the future, that even Robert, accus- 

I tomed as he was to her moods, felt confused, and could only 

say, " You will get a better boy, Mrs. Howe. I have made 

you a great deal of trouble." 

From little Hetty, as she was still called, the parting was 
yet more difficult. Hetty had all her mother's spirit, but the 
disagreeable example continually before her eyes had pre- 
vented her from displaying it in the same manner, and her 
look of sorrowful reproach went to Robert's heart. He knew 
how sad his little favorite would be if he left her alone, and 
< for a moment his resolution was shaken. Why should he go 
away from the friends that loved him dearly, that had be- 
friended him in his worse than orphan state ? But Robert 
. hesitated only a moment. It was no idle caprice that 
. took him away, but there was a necessity in the case ; his 
I future prospects, his personal independence, were involved in 
it. So he led his little playmate to the top of the hill that 
' looked down upon the neighboring village, and there, prom- 
ising that he would see her very, very often, and would 
• 1 23* 



270 EGBERT FLEMMING. 

always bring her something nice from the town, he kissed 
her forehead, eyes and lips, over and over again; then, dash- 
ing away the tears that he thought quite unmanly in a youth 
of sixteen, he trudged steadily down the hill, not trusting 
himself to look back, for he knew that the child would main- 
tain her position there till he was quite out of sight. 

In choosing a profession, Robert Flemming was true to his 
early preference ; and with the flattering credentials furnished 
him by Mr. Howe and his old schoolmaster, it was not diffi- 
cult for him to gain admission into a printing establishment, 
where he could read of tiger hunts and other wondrous things 
to his heart's content. We have no inclination to follow our 
hero through his five years of apprenticeship — not dull, oh, 
no ; — time never hung heavily on Robert Flemming's hands; 
but sometimes laborious, and never without its peculiar trials. 
The indignities to which a sensitive nature is subjected by its 
inferiors, when fortune obliges them to come in contact, are 
not borne without an effort. But at last his term of servicei 
expired, and then, pennyless, but by no means friendless, he'l 
had another long probation to undergo ere he could feel him- ' 
self quite a man among other men. But one truth had been' 
indelibly impressed on the mind of the boy by his sensible 
master, which many young men of promise have been ruined • 
by not understanding. Young Flemming knew that in this 
every-day world, few could step at once into fortune — that 
persevering industry is the only sure ladder to preferment. 

A country wedding is an affair of importance ; and when 
it was noised throughout a certain neighborhood that " thai 
wild boy, Robert, had returned to marry Hetty," it created as 
great a sensation as the arrival of a foreign danseuse would 
have produced in other circles. The young men thought the 
handsome Miss Hester Howe, heiress to all her father's br- 1/ 
lands, very foolish to throw herself away in such a manii . 
the young misses pursed up their mouths, both pretty and j 
ugly, and declared that these proud folks never made out very t 
well, and to their minds she deserved nothing better; while 



ROBERT FLEMMING. 271 

^e old people all agreed that it was a " pretty risky busi 
ness." And so it might have been, but our idler had learned 
I something of himself, and of the responsibilities attendant 
1 1 upon livmg ; and a change had come over his mind and hab- 
■ ,its. And the Howes acted with becoming independence on 
' the occasion — Mrs. Howe even going so far as to give some 
I of the most impertinent of the meddlers "a piece of her 
mind ;" and the wedding went off at last to the admiration 
of everybody. Robert Flemming's cheerful, manly face and 
commanding figure, did much to turn the current of public 
opinion in his favor ; and the hearty grasp of the hand with 
I which he met his old acquaintances, together with the polili- 
i cal information that he furnished Squire White, who had not 
seen the late papers, completed his conquest over their hearts. 
Busily wagged many a tongue on the morning of the wed- 
ding ; though, strange as it may seem, nearly everybody had 
foreseen how matters would turn out, from the very first, par- 
ticularly those who had thrown up their indignant hands the 
highest, and wondered the loudest what that boy would come 
to. 

"And now you are one of us in earnest," said Mr. Howe, 
wringing the tough hand of the bridegroom ; " and I shall be 
almost as proud to call you my son as I should if you had 
been a farmer." 

" And I as proud to call you father as though you were a 
king," returned the young man, warmly. 
i "President, you mean — say president!" exclaimed old 
Squire White, warmly, who, from having been a ^^seventy- 
sixer" thought that kings should be classed with " other pi- 
, rates and robbers," and never let slip an opportunity to lift up 
his voice against them. "It 's a shame for American boys to 
,be talking after this sort of the oppressor who sets his heel 

;on " 

" But presidents and presidents' sons should n't be proud, 
jyou know; that would be anti-republican," interrupted Robert 
. Flemming, good-hum ore dly, " and so the comparison would n't 
,be in point." 



272 ROBERT FLEMMING. 

" Proud! — no, no, that they shouldn't," muttered the old 
man, wiiile Robert turned again to his father-in-law. 

" It shall be the study of my life to repay the kindness 
shown to an untaught, friendless boy, who, without you " 

" Would have done well, Robert; I see it, I know it now, 
though there was a time when I used to have my fears of 
what you would come to at last." 

"Now, Eben Howe, do get out of the way!" exclaimed 
a shrill voice close at hand; "how can the dear boy speak 
to his mother while you stand mumbling and fumbling at this 
rate, owning yourself the half-hearted man that you are, never 
seeing an inch ahead. It is well that everybody was n't so 
blind Robert, or else " The old lady finished the sen- 
tence by a knowing glance towards the bevy of peony- 
cheeked damsels surrounding her daughter. "And yet 
here you stand talking with all the old men, and shaking ; 
hands with everybody, as though you had n't a word for your 
mother." 

"My mother truly — doubly so!" said the young maniiij 
imprinting a hearty kiss upon the cheek, which, although 
somewhat withered, now glowed with the excitement of the 
moment; "and the very kindest of mothers have you been to 
me, from the moment of my frolic with Jowler (poor old Jow-. 
ler! it seemed like losing a human friend when he died) uf j 
to the present time." 

"Ay — ay, so you say; but it is little you act as though 
you thought you had ever received the least kindness from 
the poor creature you have come to. rob of all she ever had 
to love." 

The raised tone of voice could not fail to reach the ears of 
the bride, and such an entreating look ! It might have meltec 
a sterner heart than Mrs. Howe's — that is, if stern hearfc 
were furnished with eyes to see it with. 

" I have certainly caused you no small degree of trouble,' 
Robert Flemming began, but he was interrupted. I 

"No — no, you never made any trouble, Robert, not the 



ROBERT FLEMMING- 273 

least ; but I do think you might just come and live with us on 

1 he farm, where there 's thousands to support us all " 

\ ' " Mother — mother," whispered the bride, touching her arm 
vith a finger all in a quiver, " mother, don't ; everybody is 
learing you ; don't, I entreat ! " 

" And what if everybody is hearing me ? What have I 
said to be ashamed of? I say there 's thousands for us all, 
ind it 's a shame, and a sin, and a disgrace, for Robert 

Plemming " 

" But, mother dear, that has been all settled, you know," 
; igain interposed the bride, in a tremulous whisper. 
'■ " Yes, I know it has been all settled; but who settled it, 
' ffetly Howe — Mistress Hetty Flemming, as I suppose 1 

Ijnust say after this — who settled it, and " 

I! "We will unsettle it, Rachel," said Mr. Howe, with a 
I fe[lance which added, " What a pity nobody but me knows 
fciow to manage her ! " — " we will unsettle it, and Robert shall 
;.ive with us willy nilbj." 

! " Shall ! you don't mean shall, I hope ? Robert has always 
had his own way, and I 'm the last one to interfere with his 
doings, though he does take the heart out of me and leave 

the old house desolate. It is a sad thing — a sad , 

There, the very papers of cake I had put up for the Thomp- 
sons ! I never ! The idea of Becky's bringing such a troop 
:jf children with her ! " 
I 

Year on year had passed, and each, as is the custom with 
years, left a token ; a great one with the great, and a simpler 
one with the lowly. Even old Time is an aristocrat. A 
church, a new school-house, and a cluster of dwelling-houses 
had been erected in the neighborhood of Mr. Howe ; while 
another Robert Flemming, as roguish, as heedless, and as 
fond of newspapers as the first, had grown almost as tall as 
his father, and so undertaken the management of his grand- 
father's farm. Everything was changed. Even a new gen- 
eration of beings had sprung up around the old farmer and 
his still wrangling but kind-hearted spouse. 



274 ROBERT FLEMMING. 

It was a bitingly cold night. Ugh ! what a shiver the 
swinging of a door sent over pleasant fire-lit rooms ! how 
thankful thinking people were for the roof that reflected back 
the blaze upon them ! But the fireside, lavishly comfortable 
as it was, was not all powerful. Affairs of importance 
were to be discussed, and so all the men in the neighborhood 
were collected in the school-house. A thin-faced man had 
taken the chair, and a fair-haired one beside him was about 
unfolding a paper, probably fraught Avith weighty matters, 
when the do^ opened, and in hobbled old Squire White. 
He held in his hand a crushed newspaper, his long, silvay 
hair, which was usually braided over his bald crown, was 
straggling about his shoulders and floating ofT on every puff 
of air ; his spectacles were across his forehead instead of his 
nose, and the Sunday hat of his grandson was stuck jauntily 
(as hats too small must be) on one side of his head. 

" Hurrah, boys ! " exclaimed the old man, tottering towards;- 
the middle of the room, and flourishing his cane with an arm 
not yet quite nerveless ; " returns from all the principal coun-; 
ties, and the 'lection is sartin. Three cheers for Robert 
Flemming, the best governor that ever set foot in York state. 
The blood of 76 is a-stirring yet, I can tell ye, boys ! Why 
don't ye shout ? Hurra — a — a ! " and as the successive 
peals died away, the old man raised his palsied hands and 
exclaimed, "Well, the ways of Providence are marvellous! 
Who would have thought when little Bobby Flemming lamed 
my pony, that he would ever come to this ? " 

It is possible that some knowing politician may attempt tc 
dispute the accuracy of my veritable history ; but I defy his 
ingenuity, except with regard to the name of Robert Flem- 
ming. There I will plead guilty to romancing, it being only 
a veil hung by the hand of propriety over one as widely 
known and dearly loved as any on whom the Erppire state 
has ever bestowed her honors. y 



276 



TO MY MOTHER. 

[written after a short absence.] 

Give me my old seat, mother, 

With my head upon thy knee ; 
I 've passed through many a changing scene 

Since thus I sat by thee. 
Oh ! let me look into thine eyes — 

Their meek, soft, loving light 
Falls like a gleam of holiness 

Upon my heart to-night. 

I 've not been long away, mother , 

Few suns have rose and set, 
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek 

My lips in kisses met ; 
'Tis but a httle time, I know, 

But very long it seems. 
Though every night I came to thee, 

Dear mother, in my dreams. 

The world has kindly dealt, mother, 

By the child thou lov'st so well ; 
Thy prayers have circled round her path, 

And 't was their holy spell 
Which made that path so dearly bright, 

Which strewed the roses there ; 
Which gave the light, and cast the balm 

On every breath of air. 

I bear a happy heart, mother ; 

A happier never beat ; 
And even now new buds of hope 

Are bursting at my feet. 



276 TO MY MOTHER. 

Oh, mother ! life may be " a dream,"' 
But if such dreams are given, 

While at the portal thus we stand, 
What are the truths of heaven ? 

I bear a happy heart, mother ; 

Yet, when fond eyes I see. 
And hear soft tones and winning words, 

I ever think of thee. 
And then, the tear my spirit weeps 

Unbidden fills my eye ; 
And like a homeless dove, I long 

Unto thy breast to fly. 

Then, I am very sad, mother, 

I 'm very sad and lone ; 
Oh I there 's no heart, whose inmost fold 

Opes to me like thine own ! 
Though sunny smiles wreathe blooming lips, 

While love-tones meet my ear ; 
My mother, one fond glance of thine 

Were thousand times more dear. 

Then, with a closer clasp, mother, . 

Now hold me to thy heart ; 
I 'd feel it beating 'gainst my own 

Once more before we part. 
And, mother, to this love-lit spot, 

When I am far away, 
Come oft — too oft thou canst not come . — 

And for thy darling pray. 



1 



277 



APRIL. 

The spring-time is coming-, the merry-voiced spring ! 

Young beauty awakes, with the wave of her wing; 

And the bright heavens ringing with music and mirth, 

From hill, vale, and woodland, are echoed by earth. 

The spring-time ! the spring-time I there come with the word 

The dash of the glad rain, the voice of the bird, 

The gushing of streamlets, the swelling of floods, 

The springing of verdure, and bursting of buds. 

The bright spring is coming! 1 feel even now 

The spirit-like touch of her breath on my brow ; 

Her varied light streams over '-alley and hill. 

And breaks in gay flashes from fountain and rill. 

But the flashing of eyes, with more beautiful light. 

And the streaming of tresses, as golden and bright, 

Are missed from the hearth-stone, are missed from the hall, 

Nor come with the blossoms of spring at her call. 

And she glads not the mourner, whose treasure is crashed, 
And laid where the song and the laughter are hushed. 
Though golden-eyed mosses their rich mantle spread, 
And flower-censers swing o'er the grave of the dead. 
Nor glads she the captive, for in his lone cell; 
Waits hollow-eyed woe, the slow moments to tell j 
And the exile's foot falters, as memory weaves 
Fond tales with the spreading of wings and of leaves. 

Oh ! there are full many that may not be glad ! 
Want's children are haggard, sin's worshippers mad ; 
Lips bright as the fruit-buds are steeped in despair, 
And foot-falls like fairies' grow heavy with care ; 
24 



278 A WISH. 10 AN mPANT. 

And even gay spirits, that welcome the spring, 
As they move in the sunlight, a dark shadow fling ; 
Glad, glad are they now, — with the weeper they'll weep; 
Life bounds in each pulse, — with the sleeper they'll sleep. 



A WISH 



'T IS beautiful ! 't is beautiful ! 

That soft, rich, half-veiled light, 
Flung by the beams which warmed the day, 

Upon the brow of night. 

So when life's golden day shall close, 

And on my mother's breast 
I slumbering lie, may love still smile 

Upon my shadowy rest. 



TO AN INFANT. 

The glittering wing, that a leaf might crush, 
A silvery voice, that a breath might hush, 
A dew-drop, quivering on a flower, 
The flickering blush of the sunset hour, 
The chain of pearls round the brow of night. 
That melts and is lost in the morning light, — 
All things gentle, pure and free, 
And fragile, are but types of thee. 



279 



THE OLD MAN. -A FACT. 

The old dry leaf came circling down, 

On a windy autumn day, — 
The leaf all sere, and glazed, and brown, - 

On the bleak, bare hill to play ; 
And the sky put on its drearest frown 

On that windy autumn day. 

The hea\y clouds went drifting by, 

As gray as gray could be. 
And not a speck of azure sky 

Could the crime-chased wanderer see ; 
That dark stern man, low crouching by 

The gnarled old oak tree. 

But drearer grew the inky sky. 

As daylight fled away ; 
And the winds more madly hurried by, 

As if they dared not stay : 
Howling afar and shrieking nigh, 

In wild unearthly play. 

Then the old man shook his hoary head. 

As on his staff leaned he ; 
For the sky above with blood seemed red, 

And the earth a bloody sea ; 
And on him crimson drops were shed 

From the boughs of the old oak tree. 

Then the old man laughed a horrid laugh, 

And shook his head again ; 
And clenching fast his crooked staff, 

He hurried toward the plain ; 
And the hills rung back his hellish laugh, 

And the wild winds laujjhed amain. 



THE OLD MAJNf. 

On, on he strode, but still there rung 

Those echoes from the hiU ; 
And livid clouds above him hung, 

And forms, his blood to chill. 
High o'er his head in mid-air swung, 

And all were laughing still. 

The old man noted not his way. 
For his heart grew cold with fear ; 

Grim thoughts, that dare not meet the day, 
Were muttered in his ear, 

And his flying feet seemed yet to stay 
Those fearful things to hear. 

He had trod that self-same path before, 

Ere evening, when he fled 
A mangled form all bathed in gore, 

And to the hill-side sped ; 
And now, at mid-night, met once more 

The murderer and his dead. 

Hushed were the winds, the clouds rolled back, 

And on that lonely dell. 
Revealing full a blood-marked track, 

The cold, pale starlight fell; — 
Ah ! light the old man did not lack, 

His handiwork to tell. 

He had loved full long and well the youth, 

In cold, dumb quiet lain; 
But what to him were love and truth, 

For bitter words and vain 
Had passed that day, and now, in sooth, 

He ne'er might love again. 

Morn came ; and on one fearful bed. 

In that dark, lonely wild. 
With sere brown leaves of autumn spread. 

The sun looked down and smiled ; 
Smiled, though there lay stiff", cold, and dead, 

The old man and his child. 



GRANDFATHER. 

The old man's eyes are dim and cold ; 

His pulse beats fitfully and low; 
He whispers oft, " I 'm old — I 'm old ! " 

And brokenly the sad words flow ; 
But, like the troubles of a child, 
The old man's griefs are all beguiled. 

The hair above his wrinkled brow 
Is braided like a wreath of snow ; 

Years have not made his shoulders bow. 
But his worn foot is weak and slow; 

And totteringly the old man moves 

Among the things his fond heart loves. 

His boyish feats are o'er and o'er 
In pride recounted every day ; 

And then he sighs that all who bore 
A share, have mouldered back to clay ; 

A tear just wets his eyelid's rim. 

Making the pale eye still more dim. 

But soon another memory wakes, 

Of prank wild, mischievous, and bold ; 

His trembling voice in mirth oft breaks, 
While merrily the tale is told ; 

And then he laughs, long, loud, and free. 

And claps his withered hands in glee. 

But tales of darker, sterner days, 

The old man loves the best to tell, — 

The rumor wild, the dumb amaze. 
The struggling bosom's fitful swell, 

24* 



GRANDFATHER. 

While Liberty was yet in bud, 

And e'en the bravest shrunk from blood. 

The rude old church within the wood 
Must in his rambling tale have share ; 

He tells how one blithe day he stood 
Within that solemn place of prayer, 

When with a scroll a stranger came. 

Which turned the latent fire to flame. 

How throbbed the pulse ! how leaped the heart ! 

How flashed the valor-lighted eye ! 
What tears from close-shut lids would start, 

Though maiden pride suppressed the sigh ! 
How many a cheek forgot its glow, 
And many a voice was choked with woe ! 

Now hastes the old man in his story, 

Thick-coming memories on him crowd,— 

The proud array, the battle gory. 
The buried chieftain's starry shroud, 

The midnight march, the ambush sly, 

The savage yell and victim's cry. 

The deed of daring proud, the word — 
Here soaring memory stays her wing ; 

Some melody within is stirred. 

And tears are trembling on the string ; 

For dearer meed the brave ne'er won, 

Than praise from lips of Washington. 

Around the things of later years 

A veil of shadowy mist is cast ; 
The clearest, deepest voice he hears, 

Steals upward from the distant past ; 
And as the lengthening vista grows, 
Each far-off vision brighter glows. 



GRANDFATHER. 283 

He 's going downward to the grave, 
The good, the kind, the dear old man; 

A worn bark drifting on the wave. 

Which the soft breeze, that comes to fan, 

May wreck, while other vessels lie. 

With canvass spread, scarce rocking, nigh. 

He 's going downward to the grave. 
Yet bears a palm-branch in his hand ; 

Pauses his standard high to wave. 

Ere treading on the blood-bought strand; — 

Ah ! church and hearth will mourn thy loss. 

Thou brave old soldier of the cross ! 

I love that dear, kind, wrinkled brow ; 

I love the dim and faded eye ; 
I love to see the calm saint bow. 

With those he loves all kneeling by ; 
For some strange power must sure be given 
To prayers breathed on the verge of heaven. 



284 



THE DYING EXILE. 

The forms of those I love ! 

They throng around me now; 
And my mother's soothing hand 

Rests on my aching brow ; 
Her face is o'er me bending, 

And, again a boy, I lie 
In the dear moss-mantled cottage, 

To the gray old forest nigh. 

My brother's bounding step, 

And thrilling shout of glee. 
My father's eye of pride, 

As he turns from him to me ; 
My sister's clustering ringlets. 

And the love-light on her brow ; — 
Oh the loved, the loved of childhood . 

They are all before me now. 

Soft, soft the dewy lips 

To my fevered lips now pressed ; 
And melting are the meek eyes 

That on me fondly rest ; 
Oh, musical the voices 

That float about my bed, 
And my mother's hand is resting 

Upon my aching head. 

And now the vision wanes ; 

Strange faces meet my eye, 
And careless voices say 

That my hour has come to die, 



THE DyiNG EXILE. 

Where lofty palm-trees cluster, 
Or long bright trailers wave, 

Or where the orange blossoms. 
They will dig the stranger's grave. 

Then, when the white snows rest, 

Far, on a frozen plain. 
Love will a footstep wait 

That shall never come again. 
But fond feet hurry after. 

And the voices that I love, 
WTien they call, shall have an answer 

From the exile's home above. 



END OF VOL. L 



A L D E li B R K 



A COLLECTION OF 



FANNY FORESTER' 



[LLAGE SKETCHES, POEMS, ETC 



MISS EMILY CHU13BUCK 



IS TWO VOLUMES. 

VOL. n. 



E L K V K :,- T II EDIT] O j\ . 
REVISED, WITH AUDITIOX.S 



• BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 

M DCCC LVI. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 

WILLIAM D. TICKNOR AND COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts, 



CONTENTS 



OF THE SECOND VOLUME 



The Uncsefpl, 5 

Nora Maylie, 15 

Grandfather Bray, 35 

Sonnet to Winter, 49 

" Lights and Shades, 49 

" The Buds of the Saranac, 50 

Born to wear a Coronet, 51 

"WlLLARD LaWSON, 63 

A Case of Lunacy not uncommon, 85 

The Great March Holyday, 94 

Not a Poet, 107 

Two Nights in the " Nieuw Nederlandts," 109 

Lucy Button, 121 

Mystery, 128 

The Priest's Soliloquy, 130 

Altnt Alice, 133 

My First Grief, 136 

The Mignionette, (A Fable,) 138 

Ministering Angels., 141 

The Rain a Thought-maker, 143 

GiiiNius, 152 



IV CONTENTS. 

LiiiAs Fane, 

The Two Flowkhs, 

Kill jJafflks, 

Tub French Emujkants, 

Ipa Ravelin, (A Fantasy,) .... 

To SrKi.wj, .... 

TuK Poetess, (An Allegory,) . . . 

Poka', 

The Angel's Pilgrimage, 

The Dissatisfied Spirit, 

To .MT Father, 

Fakuwell to Alperbrook, .... 



ALDERBROOK. 

VOL. II. 

THf: UNUSEFUL. 

Man i.s a born equestrian ; and from the time when mother 
n.xed her anxious heart on improving her condition, and 
d a world at a single bound, to this present writing, he 
."^iver lacked a hobby whereon to exercise to his heart's 
it. And it is no tame, gentle exercise ; for, whatever 
obby may be, and whether well-mounted or otherwi.se, 
• only rides tantivy, but hesitates not to " run through a 
cop and leap over a wall." We have innumerable hobbies 
-a-days; and many of them (to our credit be it said) are 
an excellent character. But, poor things I they are ridden 
wn most savagely. 

You may have seen, among these poor, jaded, spavined, 
nd-galled, would-be-racers of beasts of burden, a huge mam- 
moth, with a back like a continent, and legs like those of "Mark 
Antony in Cleopatra's dream. This is a universal holly that 
men have named Usefclxess ; and such strong claims has it 
to 'he suffrages of alLbut the butterflies, that whoever eschews 
ving of the idler, must needs accept a seat. There is no 
irn, no spot of terra firma on which we may stand and 
la!x>r in quiet, sober earnest ; one must either flutter in the air 
a giddy thing, or gallop away almost as madly on the back of 
-this irresistible hobby. But we do, verily, constitute a goodly 
array; and so uncompromisingly do we ride down everv- 
thing that is elegant and beautiful, and indolently lovely, that 
VOL. u. 1* 



THE UNUSEFTJL. 



we are even in danger of doubting the wisdom of tKe Deity 
in placing those soft, sun-draped, luxuriously lazy clouds in 
the summer heavens ; in scattering the idle, balm-breathing 
flowers so profusely by the way-side ; and in sending out the 
play-loving zephyrs to dally through the live-long day with 
every bud that has a lip to kiss, and every light-poised leaf 
that palpitates at its sly whispers, like a lady's boddice at the 
first word that takes its course from the tip of a lover's tongue | 
into her heart. Yet, our hobby is a most noble beast origin- 
ally. What a great pity that it should be made so stupidly 
ungainly by its mad riders ! A finer animal never lost its at- 
tractiveness by man's re-moulding; and while most of us jolt ! 
along upon the back of our spoiled hobby, we leave its spirit 
to the quiet, unassuming ones who close one hand to the I 
labors of the other. What can be more beautiful than Usi:- 
FULNEss — the great object of our present existence? What 
more repulsive than the deformed images to which each, ac- 
cording to his particular fancy, gives the name ?. So many a 
person, giving up the world to the ultraists, who are sent to 
occupy one of the " human extremes," preserves the spirit in 
its purity, and is most unusefully useful. 

Of a character somewhat resembling this, was my friend 
Nora Maylie ; though I think that in its formation nature had 
more to do than principle. To estimate things properly and 
reasonably requires both maturity of judgment and indepen- 
dence of thought. 

Nora Maylie must have been born under an unpromising 
star, for in infancy she was fair, fat, and good-natured ; with- 
out any of that unwelcome vivacity, so illustrative of perpet- 
ual motion ; but Avith a very knowing bok upon her baby 
features, that told you, at once, the repose of her manner 
sprang not from a lack of good sense ; at least enough of it 
to place her on a par with other babies. This sensible look 
was Nora's curse, for it gave her a preeminence over her 
sisters ; and, in proportion to her height was the number of 
stones cast at her. It was at once decided that she was bom 
to a high destiny ; and so she waddled oflf to school as soon 



THE UNUSEFUL. 7 

I as her chubby little feet would bear her weight. But physi- 
I ognomical promises are deceitful, Nora was not a particu- 
I larly playful child, and very far from being mischievous ; but 

yet, all through two golden summers of her school-life, she 
I took her daily course from a to zed, without once dreaming 

but her whole duty consisted in echoing back, with her own 

pretty lisp, each letter as it was pronounced for her. 
'. Nora Maylic was the youngest of five daughters, all 'pro- 
• fessional women, and notedly, eminently iLseful. I will not 
I say that Rachel, the eldest, could make a nice dish of tea, or 

prepare a delicious jelly for a fevered lip ; but she could make 
I dresses superbly. She was perfect in her art. Not that she 
! was obliged to make dresses — by no means ! Old farmer 
i Maylie had enough in scrip and granary for his family, with 
i now and then a bit to keep the poor around him from a sur- 
j feit of want ; but that made no difference. Mrs. Maylie 
1 hated, not idleness merely, but a tendency to dwell on the 
I minutiae of life, in preference to taking that decided stand 
i indicative of a looman of character. She was herself a nota- 
I ble housewife ; and she had always privately regretted that 

she could boast no higher excellence. She would have liked 
, well to figure more largely than was now in her power — for, 
I on account of the exclusively domestic character of her edu- 
; cation, the office of directress in a sewing society was the 
. highest that she had ever been able to assume. She was a 

sensible woman, hoAvever, and not only wisely kept her 

chagrin to herself, but when she saw that Matilda, her second 
. daughter, evinced a fondness for such vain pursuits as dress- 
. ing dolls, and painting paper flowers with sorrel-leaves and 

Indian strawberries, she at once decided that the child had a 
' great genius in the millinery line. Susan and Marj'- had a 
I predilection for intellectuality, and took to books as readily 
; and naturally as ducks take to the genial pool while yet in 
■ pen-feathers; and so, of course, they must be teachers — 

school-teachers — the most useful of all the multitudes of 

I useful people the world contains. But little Nora, (Mrs. 

Maylie's diminutive for Eleanora,) as I have said, was an 



THE UNUSEFUL. 



anomaly. At four, she took patch-work to school ; but poo 
Nora ! she could n't see into the philosophy of over-and-ove 
seams. She would rather spread the pretty calicoes on he: 
knee, and admire their bright coloring, or twist them up int( 
dolls with paper heads, and closely -pinned drapery. Ther 
she was particularly given to losing thimbles, and knotting 
thread ; and her needle, however clumsy, was always bent oi 
broken at the point, — the legitimate result of her devotion tc 
badly cracked hickory nuts. And then such stitches ! Why 
the little girls laughed till the tears came into their eyes from 
very merriment at the sight ; but when they saw the big drops 
standing in hers, they all patted her velvet cheeks lovingly, 
and smoothed her hanging hair ; and if they found her incon- 
solable, made a chair with their crossed hands and bore her 
away in triumph to the play-ground. In their wise, confiden- 
tial talks, they used to say that Nora Maylie was just the 
dearest little creature in the world, but it was a great pity she 
could not sew. As some compensation for my little friend's 
deficiencies, I should like to be able to say that she was a good 
scholar ; but no assertion could have less truth in it, — she 
was just no scholar at all. And yet I am not certain but a 
careful observer of human nature, even though less shrewd 
than the worldly-minded mother, might have detected, in this 
very backwardness, this refusal to trammel the mind with 
that which seemed in no wise calculated to enrich it, the 
germ of a higher order of intellect than common minds ap- 
preciate. As it was, however, there was no one near to raise 
the one. fold of ignorance from the beautifying soul beneath ; 
and so Nora was judged by her non-attainments. How heart- 
ily she hated the monotonous a, b, c, and the smart, flippant 
a b ab, e b eb, i b ib, that made her companions' tongues re- 
semble so many mill-clappers. When, by dint of constant 
dinging, she could make out the words of a few easy sen- 
tences, such as "no — man — may — put — off — the — law — 
of — God," she still evinced the same dead level of intellect, 
and hated her books, and hated (as poor Mrs. Maylie often 
despairingly observed) everything that was useful. But Nora 



THE UNUSEFUL. 



, yid not hate to follow her mother through the routine of her 
, lay's labor ; to run for the spoon or carving-knife when it 
, .vas wanted, and anticipate the thousand little Avants that 
. occasion a careful housewife so many steps. She learned 
. .his readily, for her heart was her teacher. Neither did she 
.late tlie arrant idlers of which I have before spoken : the dal- 
.ying breezes, the sleepy flowers, the chatty brooks, and the 
ilow-sailing clouds. Oh no ! they were too like her dear 
jttle self, too natural and graceful, ay ! and too idle withal, 
;o be anything but friends to their free and careless playmate. 
Oh ! Nora ! Nora ! thou wert a sore trial to thy poor mother's 
heart ! but what a pity that our first mother could not have 
remained contented in her ignorance — then we might all 
have been like thee. Dear, darling Nora ! We cannot re- 
spect thee, as the dictionaries define respect, but we can talce 
thee to our hearts and hold thee there forever. 
I Years passed, and Nora had seen a dozen summers. She 
[had retrieved her character at school, in a degree, but yet she 
had never mastered the multiplication table. Every word of 
a little book of fairy tales, the daily object of Mrs. Maylie's 
animadversions, was as familiar to her as the robin's song 
trilled forth every morning beneath her window, or the splash 
of the spotted trout, that made its home in the brook at the 
hill's foot ; Watts' dear, delightful children's melodies, from 
" How doth the little busy bee," to the end of the catalogue 
were on her tongue's tip, to say nothing of the " Children of 
the Wood," and other ballads, for whose loss no modern rhym- 
ster can compensate ; but Nora could not repeat a rule from 
Lindley Murray. When not engaged in homely acts of love 
whhin doors, she would wander from field to field, through 
meadow and copse, over hills and into deep, solemn dingles, 
until the tangled masses of hair shaded her face like a veil 
woven of golden threads, and her joyous eyes looked out 
wonderingly from their sunny ambush, like two renegade 
stars that had leaped from their azure mounting and set up 
for themselves in the amber shades of an October wilderness 
There she would lie, hours, beneath a shady tree, her straw 



10 



THE UNUSEFUL. 



bonnet by her side, wild flowers scattered aroand her, and a 
bar of sunlight resting on her feet, gazing into the sky with 
those large chamelion eyes all bathed in light, and with an 
intensity belonging only to idle dreamers like herself. 

Time still went on, and Nora was obliged, like her sisters, 
to choose a profession. She said she did not care'; they 
might bind her to whatever they chose ; though she intimated 
that if they could provide her with a little spade and a little 
hoe, she should by all means prefer horticulture. Such an 
enchanting spot as she would make of the old kitchen-garden ! 
The beans, and cabbages, and onions should be uprooted at 
once. The peas might remain — though she would have all 
sweetpeas — but all the other Aveeds should give place to the 
beautiful violets, and tiarellas, and fringe-wort that she would 
bring from the woods. And Nora Maylie really grew ani- 
mated at her own foolish plans. 

If truth must be told, Mrs. Maylie was more troubled 
about the perverseness of her youngest daughter than if it 
had been any of the others ; for never had a mother's ambition 
a more beautiful corner-stone for the erection of its castles 
than this. She had first conceived Nora to be a genius, but 
she had waited long and vainly for what she considered 
genius-like developments. Nora was unambitious and unas- 
suming, and all the puffing and pushing in the world could 
not make her other than what she was. Disappointed in her 
first hopes, Mrs. Maylie had set her heart on making a teacher 
of Nora, but alas ! Nora's head was not of the right stuff. 
She loved books dearly, but such books ! Why there was not, 
if we allow Mrs. Maylie to be the judge, a useful one among 
them all ! She revelled in the enchanting luxuries of literary 
flower-gatherers : they were the mirrors to reflect her own 
heart, and the glorious world about her, and her own imag- 
inings. But what science for a school-teacher ! Mrs. Maylie 
was in a dilemma. She hesitated a while, and then, with 
praiseworthy decision, seized it by the only horn to hang a 
hope upon. It was decided that Nora Maylie, in view of her 
tastefulness and lack of intellectuality, should be a milliner; 



THE UNUSKFUL. 11 

and she was forthwith sent to her sister's shop. Matilda was 
an accomplished business-woman, giving a sharp eye to all 
the ways and means of trade, and she perceived at once that 
the beautiful face of her young sister would be a great orna- 
ment to her front shop. Nora was, therefore, placed by the 
side of the forewoman, for the express purpose of fascinating 
customers ; but human calculations are often fallacious. I 
have intimated before (or, if I have not, I should have done 
so) that my friend Nova had an unusual share of artless good- 
nature, kind consideration for everybody except herself, of 
whom she never thought a moment ; and hence she was ill- 
fitted for the sphere in which she seemed destined to act. 
The very first day of her appearance as a tradeswoman, she 
was foolish enough to tell a sallow-complexioned lady that a 
pea-green hat, which she was on the point of purchasing, was 
unbecoming; and so the sale was lost. Another bonnet 
she thought too heavily laden with ornaments, and so the 
purchaser ordered a large cluster of artificial flowers, on 
which Matilda had resolved to speculate a little, taken from 
the crown. Matilda expostulated and reasoned, but as the 
simple sister only opened wide her beautiful eyes in astonish- 
ment, and seemed utterly incapable of appreciating the argu- 
ments, and, moreover, as a week's trial gave no symptoms 
of reformation, she was removed to the back shop. But here 
it was but little better; for though she knotted ribands and 
arranged flowers with exquisite taste, she had a way of soft- 
ening the drudgery of the business, not at all pleasing to an 
inhabitant of Dollar-land. If she had been satisfied to play 
the idler herself, it might have been endured ; but Nora could 
not bear to see those half-dozen necks bent with painful im- 
movableness over bits of silk and stiffened muslin ; and those 
eight times half-dozen fingers ply, ply, plying the needle con- 
stantly, as though the whole of existence was comprised within 
the contracted space enclosed by those four walls. And so 
she bewildered the tittle coterie with the things she had seen 
in her dreams ; the rounded periods falling from her bulbous 
lips slowly and with a dc'icious quietude that bewitched while 



12 THE UNUSEFUL. 

It lulled the senses. There was an interested uplifting of eye- 
brows, and a relaxing of fingers when she spoke ; and smiles 
became more frequent and stitches less, until the detrimental 
influence of the unuseful sister became strUfingly apparent. 
The prudent Matilda again resorted to argument; but as 
Nora's strange obtuseness on these subjects seemed uncon- 
conquerable, she was, at last, obliged to discharge her thought- 
less apprentice to save her establishment from ruin. Poor 
Nor,j she was deeply pained at the distress her friends 
evmced on her account; and she begged to be taken home, 
promising to do anything and everything there, that should 
be required of her. But this, as has been already seen, was 
no part of Mrs. Maylie's plan. She had disposed of all her 
daughters as she desired, and if she had manoeuvred less than 
mammas who seek for a life-establishment, she did not take 
to herself less credit for her successful management. But in 
the case of her youngest daughter she had entirely failed. 
She had resolved to make Nora a star, but Nora would not 
shine. Indeed, it would have been impossible to make her 
think about herself long enough to know whether she shone 
or not ; and the idea of supporting a character, even for five 
minutes, Avould have been oppressive to her. Slowly she 
moved about the large, old farm-house, with a step as noise- 
less as 

" That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon," 

cheerful, and Icind, and loving ; but as characterless as the 
pe'.-lamb which she led about the garden by its grass-woven 
c:;...ar. Yet rare beauties, rare for such beauty-scorning peo- 
ple as the Maylies, sprang up beneath her touch wherever she 
turned. Her very presence seemed to infuse into everything 
about her a calm, quiet loveliness ; and there was a soft re- 
pose in her manner, that made her ii. fluence felt by the most 
bustling of the working-bees in that busiest of all busy hives* 
Even Mrs. Maylie looked on, and wondered that everybody 
should yield to Nora ; and wondered that with hei lazy ways 



THE UNUSEFUL. 13 

fihe could accomplish so much ; and then sighed that what 
was accomplished was of so little use. To be sure, Nora 
brought the easy-chair to her father, when he came in tired 
from the field ; and smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek ; 
and then supported the basin on his knee, while the old man 
bathed his heated brow with the cold water she had dipped 
from the spring ; but old farmer Maylie had been his life-long 
accustomed to waiting on himself, and this was an unpar- 
donable waste of time. And Nora carried flowers, fresh, 
fragrant flowers, into her mother's little bed -room, and re- 
arranged the simple furniture, and put a snowy muslin curtain 
in place of the soiled paper one, at the window ; and, in short, 
wrought such an entire change, that even Mrs. Maylie her- 
self smiled involuntarily whenever she opened the door , 
though she was always heard to lament, immediately after, 
that such wondrous talent should be wasted on such trivial 
pursuits. But it was with her brothers that Nora Maylie was 
the all-in-all. Hers was the only woman's influence that they 
had ever felt ; for their mother and elder sisters were too 
much like themselves — pushing, elbowing, jostling, calculat- 
ing, hurrying, eating, and sleeping — both of those last in a 
greater hurry than any of the others. But coming into Nora's 
presence was like entering a new atmosphere. There was 
something superior — something pure, serene, refining, calcu- 
lated to suppress turbulent passions, and noisy tones, in her 
soft, yielding manner, and low, musical voice, that no one 
could resist. The bare, gloomy parlor, which was never 
opened but to company, Nora won her mother into giving up 
to her direction, and soon it was entirely metamorphosed, and 
made a delightful withdrawing-room for the family in the cool 
of the day. And there Nora sat with her brothers : her lux- 
uriously developed figure so simply, yet so tastefully draped* 
as to lead one to believe that the addition of a single fold 
would mar its symmetry; the pearly whiteness of her skin, 
with the most delicate rose-tint on dewy lip and downy cheek, 
contrasting strikingly -v^ath their bronzed labor-stained faces ; 
her massy volumes of hair, folding plainly around a head 
VOL. II, 2 



14 THE UNUSEFUL. 

whose beauty would have mocked the chise of Pygmalion, 
and gathered into a magnificent knot behind ; her full, white, 
exquisitely moulded hands folded over a manly shoulder, or 
wandering like lost snow-flakes among dark, stubby clusters 
of hair ; her breathing lips parted, and sounds wandering 
thence at dreamy intervals, the messengers of a heart all 
goodness, all simplicity, all love. And sometimes she would 
bring books, the books she delighted in; and though the 
brothers never glanced their eyes over such pages themselves, 
Wora's soulful voice, with its bird-like tones and eloquent ca- 
dences, was the interpreter between the poet's heart and theirs. 
The Masters Maylie used to boast of their business-like sis- 
ters ; asserting that nobody could drive bargains like Rachel 
and Matilda ; and nobody could maintain order among the 
rebellious spirits of the school-room like Susan and Mary ; 
but their hearts always fell back upon the unuseful Nora, and 
they declared, with softened faces and gentler voices, that she 
was good for nothing but to love. But there they were wrong. 
She cheered, she encourgjged, she smoothed difficulties, she 
soothed peevishness, and softened heartlessness ; her loving 
spirit stealing unobserved on all, and distilling its own dews 
over the whole household. None resisted her power, for 
there was nothing in it to resist. It was impalpable, undis- 
coverable, and yet most deliciously felt, most unhesitatingly 
acknowledged. Was it a matter of regret that Nora Maylie 
was an unuseful woman ? 

[ I did not promise you a tale, dear reader, (did I ?) when I 
commenced this sketch. If you expected one, you were mis- 
led by your own imagination, for I thought only of dashing 
off, with a few simple strokes, the character of a friend, who, 
whatever her faults, you will acknowledge has some virtues 
If, however, you have become sufficiently interested in gentle 
Nora Maylie, to desire to hear more, I may resume the thread 
of my narrative at some future period.] 



15 



NORAMAYLIE. 

«« Do ! " 

Tell more of Nora Maylie ? Ah yes ! with pleasure ; J 
love dearly to think of her. 

Please vacate that ottoman, 'Bel, and betake yourself to the 
sofa. My first sketch was written on that, and I have a kind 
of fondness for it ; " by the same token," as an Irish woman 
would say, that we love the haunts of our childhood. Be- 
sides, it is just the right height; allo^ving head, neck, and a 
very small portion of the shoulder to rise above the table. 
That will oblige me to sit straight. 

High-shouldered ? Oh no ! see how easily the thhig is 
done, and without the possibility of lounging. 

Then I have another reason for affecting this ottoman. 
Geniuses have queer notions, (as well as other spoiled chil- 
dren,) and the world pets and indulges them, and encourages, 
their eccentricities, till oddity becomes the universal badge of 
the tribe, and men reason something on this wise : 

All geniuses have queer notions ; 
A has queer notions ; 
Therefore A is a genius. 



Or au contrain 



All geniuses have queer notions , 
A has no queer notions ; 
Therefore A is not a genius. 



Now I have set my heart on playing make-believe, smce 1 
am not a genius ; and so I must contrive up some little pecu- 
liarity. Burns wrote his first things on tlie air, while saun- 
tering over the " banks and braes of bonny Doon ;" and, seal- 
ing the light-winged scrip to his memory, he carried it home 
18 



16 NORA MAYLIE. 

to copy from at leisure. It was a very odd thing of the Doon i 
man ! Any common individual would have written better in 
a quiet room, with the most convenient of standishes, a half- 
dozen nicely nibbed pens, and a quire of foolscap cut and 
paged, all spread invitingly before him. (And, between our ' 
two selves, 'Bel, I think /should prefer such a room, genius 
or no genius.) But here is another case, quite in point. The 
whilorae proprietary of Glenmary found the shadow of a 
bridge, a wall impregnable to truant thoughts; and he has \ 
made the spot, seldom looked upon but by rafters and cross- 
beams, and the little winged people that go among them to 
find summer-lodgings, classic ground. That bridge at Glen- 
mary ! What a scrambling there will be to see it one of these 
days ! 

And this ottoman ! it is a very trivial thing, to be sure, but 
that is whit makes it important ; and I shall take pains to let '. 
it be known that this is my own peculiar property, leaving it i) 
to be inferred that I could not possibly write anywhere else, .1 
Then think of your great-grandchildren, 'Bel, exhibiting this i 
same pretty ottoman — the cover so faded that you could )iot 
recognize it, and the hair peeping through a thousand crev- 
ices — think of their exhibiting it to their gaping little ones ■ 
as — I can no more, 'Bel; for, even while these light words 
are on my tongue, there comes a grave betv/een my eye and 
the point it would settle on. 

Wheel around the sofa, dear, and sit close beside me; . 
for the ugly vision has got upon my heart, and you must wile : 
it away, while I tell, whomsoever chooses to read, something 
more of Nora Maylie. 

'St, cousin ! 'st ! The public is my audience now, and will 
care no more for that point-lace of yours than they would for r^ 
so much " Lisle thread." 

Dear reader, how left we Nora Maylie? Indolent and 
good-natured, was she not ? Disliking anything like bustle, 
and resisting every attempt to be made something of, with an i 
invisible strenuousness that made wise people marvel mightilyi , 
whether her nature were of wax or adamant ? I think we so ; 



II 



NORA MAYLIE. 17 

«ft her, and so we find her ; as like what she was as yon sun 
(vill be to its present self, when we, who now glory in its 
ight, are shut away from it by the coffin-lid. Few changes 
-ome upon such characters as that of the fair Nora. They 
ippear before us quietly and without ostentation, as the bright- 
;yed pansy unfolds its petals in the spring-time ; and, like 
hat loveliest of lovely things, they live on, smiling in the 
ninshine, and bending to the storm with a pliant gracefulness 
Vhich mars not their beauty. And yet those who looked 
)nly at outward circumstances would have said that Nora 
\Iaylie was changed most entirely. You Avill recollect that 
It sixteen poor Nora was considered unfit to become a milliner 
Wen, and sent home in disgrace to do nothing. At eighteen 
;he was altogether above the necessity of doing anything. 
I Mrs. Maylie chanced to have a sister, who married a for- 
'une, together with an aged and gouty metropolitan ; and this 
lady chanced to get a glimpse of our fair Nora. Instantly 
Mrs. Maylie was made to understand that she had mistaken 
jer daughter's vocation ; and so the young beauty was be- 
lewelled, be- flounced, and bedizened, till it was proved by 
Jvery possible experiment, that, adorned or unadorned, she 
vas all the same, and transferred to a fashionable drawing- 
"oom. Everybody said that Nora Maylie was a very lucky 
iidividual, and many a pretty maiden sighed with envy as 
he proud mother recounted her darling's triumphs. But 
Vhat thought the young lady herself? Alas ! the perverse- 
iess of human nature ! Nora longed for the green woods 
vhere she had first dreamed over the gorgeous creations of 
ninds as dreamy and as idle as her own ; the silver-toned 
^oice arising from the little trout-stream at the foot of the hill 
Vas forever in her ear, and. she was sure no man-made music 
;ould compare with it ; and there were birds and flowers, and 
r- shall I tell you ? Those were very homely tastes of Nora 
\Iaylie's. The tame rabbits, peaking their ears at every 
ound ; old Mooly, with her crumpled horns and sober, sensi- 
\\e face ; the doves that used to fly from the barn-top to her 
)Osom ; the hens, with their domestic, motherly ways ; and 

VOL. 11. 2* 



IS NORA MAYLIE. 

the geese, with their pretty necks and tea-party voices — al 
these were to poor Nora as so many lost friends, whose placei 
could not be supplied by the simpering things in stays an( 
broadcloth that flocked to do her homage. 

And were there any other home attractions for Nora thai 
these, and her own kin? Anything for which she wouL 
have resigned her envied position, with all the eagerness of i 
pent-up stream leaping every barrier, and bounding away t 
the ocean's bosom ? 

You may never have heard of Will Waters, a handsome 
dark-eyed, roguish-looking, care-for-naught sort of a fellow 
who would rake up more hay in four hours than anybody elsi 
could between twilight and twilight, and give the rest of hi 
time to rod or gun, or some other heathenish amusement' 
Was there a dance. Will Waters was in the midst, leadin;; 
out the brightest of the blushing damsels ; was there a husbl 
ing, it was an entire failure without Will Waters' songs ; ann 
at fourth-of-July orations and stump speeches, and other move 
ments for the public good, nobody could hold a candle to cleve- 
Will Waters. Yet (great men will have their failings) Wi] 
was a wild fellow, very wild ; and people said he was not t 
be depended upon in the least. Nobody could tell what bar 
things he had done or was in danger of doing ; and everybod; i 
loved him for his frank heartsomeness, his ready wit, and hi ; 
gay good-nature ; but still, it was the general impression tha \ 
Will Waters, though a " very promising young man," wouL 
somehow manage to seduce his nature into breaking it 
promise. 

There was a village between Mr. Waters' farm and Mil 
Maylie's ; and Will's handsome face was no stranger to th 1 
villasre beauties, who had wasted more smiles on him than' 
often burnish a coat of country finish ; but Will had somehow ! 
dodged the whole artillery and passed on. Away in thn 
woods, skirting fair fields of pale green maize and dancinj f 
flax, so proud of its light-poised gem of blue. Will Water j 
was destined to another trial ; and this time the weapon wa; 
oointed by a more celebrated marksman than himself. ' 



' NORA MAYLIE. 19 

The sun was just scattering his last grains of gold-dust 
ipon the spotted alders that leaned over the trout-stream at 
le foot of " the Maylie hill," when Will Waters, his fowl- 
ig-piece over his shoulder, and his dog by his side, leaped 
,16 chattering brook ; and, making a great crackling and 
xashing among the underbush, landed headlong upon a vel- 
ety bank, hemmed in by witch-hazel, blackberry bushes, and 
le white-flowering dog-wood. The rude entree was occa- 
ioned by an officious grape-vine that had taken a fancy to put 
,s arms around the young man's foot, coarse-booted though it 
fas ; but Will Waters was in a very proper position, consider- 
jig all things. Beneath the deep shade of a broad-leaved 
ass-wood, whose peculiar perfume made the air around 
leavy with richness, appeared, in wondering amazement, the 
distress of this sylvan drawing-room. A bob-o'link had 
jjme up from his home among the sedges over the brook, 
jfid was perking his pretty .bill, and smoothing his plumage 
ith a knowing impudence, directly before her face ; but 
lick was the exit of Master Robert when wild Will Waters 
jcame an actor in the scene. A scarce adult mouser, fast 
ileep on its mistress' knee, opened its yellow eyes in affright, 
id scampered off as fast as its velvet feet would carry it ; and 
crow that had lighted on a limb above, and sat in silence, 
jpefully civilized by the nearness of the white-browed divi- 
ty, spread his black wings and rushed skyward with a caw ! 
iw ! which threw Madam Echo into an ecstasy of noisy fear, 
ut the fair human joined not at all in the commotion. True, 
lie rose to her feet, but not with that twitch and jerk which 
|any another would have adopted ; she rose with the aston- 
ihed dignity of one who intends to say by the movement, " I 

[I quite superior to being annoyed by you, but I should, like 
know how far your impudence will carry you;" and her 
ge, changeable eyes were opened to their greatest width. 
I " The position could have been no more appropriate had it 
ten of my own choosing, fairest thou of witching Syl- 
ins ! " exclaimed the youth, springing to his knee, and re- 
lating the salaam. 



20 



NORA MAYLIE. 



The lady blushed a little, and looked as though not quit 
sure of what she ought to do in such a case, and so she di( 
nothing ; though her face grew talkative with its declaratioi 
of amused curiosity. 

" Is it not enough that you have snares at your door-way 
nymph most beautiful," continued wild Will, " but must he 
who enters your charmed circle find the chains rivetted about 
him forever?" 

" Nay," returned the lady with a delicious smile, that be- 
lied her mocking words, " nay, poor youth, I pity thy mishap, 
and release thee without a ransom ; depart in peace ! " 

" Bid the poor charmed thing be free, that is beneath the 
eye of the basilisk," exclaimed Will in a .tone of mock mourn- 
fulness. 

" Be free ! " repeated the lady ; " the basilisk withdraws his 
gaze ;" and she gathered up her scattered implements and with! 
a slight curtsey, was turning away. 

" Nay, lady," exclaimed the hunter in an altered tone^ 
springing to his feet and shouldering his fowling-piece, "I 
intruded unwittingly upon your sanctum ; and though, by youiii 
leave, I cannot regret the accident, you must not abandon it ; 
for see ! I am gone." 

As he spoke. Will stepped back a few paces ; but how he ,| 
could consider himself gone, is a query in my mind to this 
day ; for there was a good yard of the golden-hued moss 
between him and the blackberry bushes and Co., which pali- i 
saded the pretty retreat. The lady, however, must have 
believed him, for she turned round very quietly, and fixed hei 
eye on pussy, which was peeping her little head from a clunif 
of thorns that threatened to disfigure her coat most sadly 
Will Waters retreated slowly, until the folded leaf of thd 
dog-wood touched the hem of his hunting-frock ; and then 
with an air of the most respectful deference, he ventured i 
remark on the beauty of the wood-land scene. The lady, ir 
common civility, could but answer ; and Will replied ; anc 
then the lady's voice gave out a bar of music, which Wil 
Waters could not allow to close the interview, and so 



d 



NORA MAYLIE. 21 

should not like to tell you how much lime passed, dear 

ader, for it was shockingly imprudent in Nora Maylie to 

ow herself to be so beguiled. Will Waters, however, uii- 

tood his cue well enough to lean upon his fowling-piece ; 

d Nora turned her back upon the bass-wood tree, and em- 

jloyed her fingers in making baskets of its leaves. The 

kvihght was putting on its grayest hue, when Nora recol- 

3cted that she should be reluming home; and though the 

|outh did not venture to accompany her in person, his eyes 

pllowed her every step across the fields. 

Will Waters made two or three ineflfectual attempts to get 
)P a whistle on his way homeward that evening ; and once he 
truck out mto a song very clamorously ; but he was so ab- 
ent-minded as to break off' in the middle of a word, which 
|i'ord is waiting for its other half to this day. 
j The very next evening Nora Maylie was again surprised 
n her rustic bower ; but, as the young hunter came in a dif- 
srent manner, and, moreover, as he made a very character- 
itic apology (prettily impudent) for coming at all, the lady 
id not consider it necessary to rise from her rich cushions. 
"Neither did the bob-'link fly away — instead, he gave out a 
glorious gush of music ; pussy opened her eyes lazily and 
pimediately closed them again ; and a good-natured little 
jhrush, that saw fit to make itself quite at home there, went 
jiopping along on the ground, and never once turned its eye 
inquire whether the intruder came for it or its neighbors, 
^''ery well might humble browTiy manifest such indifference ; 
or wild Will's step had an exceedingly innocent sound to it, 
scarce rustling a leaf, much less presuming on the entertain- 
nent which, by the aid of the grape-vine, he had furnished for 
voodland edification the day previous. I know not how it 
vas, but Nora Maylie took the intrusion something in the 
ipirit of jNIrs. Thrush, whose back of plebeian brownness 
lever ruffled a feather; and so wild Will Waters leaned his 
fun against the bass-wood, and placed himself at the lady's 
eet without the ceremony of asking. Will Waters had a 
lashmg way of talking which Nora had never heard before, 



22 NOKA MAYLIE. 

and so she decided in her own mind that it was dramatic 
Shaksperian, or something of that sort ; Avhile Nora's voic 
reminded the young hunter of the whisper of the south-wine 
dallying with the silver-lined blades of grass, on whose wa^ 
ing tips he had often been borne away to the land of dreanii 

That our young friends were mutually pleased with eac 
other, was very certain ; and that their friends would be mi 
tually displeased, should the acquaintance chance to ripen int 
anything more than common friendship, was quite as certaii 
As far as farmer IMaylie was known, it was thought that h; 
handsome daughter would make an unprofitable wife ; an 
Mrs. Maylie would have been struck wuth consternation at th 
thought of committing her poor child, with her lamentah : 
deficiencies, to the keeping of such a dashing, careless fellov'; 
as wild Will Waters. But young people never will fall i ; 
love prudently, and this second interview decided the fate t ; 
Will and Nora. To be sure, they did not meet then nor a i 
terwards as lovers, but they did meet, nevertheless ; and tw 
young people do not go every day to the same spot, and Hstei 
to each other's voices, and look into each other's faces, aiii 
read from each other's hearts to no purpose. No, no ! tl' 
temple that God made, the solemn old wood, is a dangeroi : 
place for beauty and manliness, that should not love, to me 
in. There is so much of love in every wind-moved puli 
which beats there, that the heart must own a triple crust ( 
worldliness to brave its influence. 

At last Mrs. Maylie's eyes became opened to the truth, b 
she was saved the trouble of expostulation by the timely i 
terference of her wealthy sister ; and so Nora was borne awf 
to other scenes. Before she went, however, the moon w; 
nessed a very solemn meeting between herself and W\i 
Waters ; there were vows, and tears, and comforting worci 
and baseless castle-building enough to occupy long hours ; aii 
then, with promises, the fiftieth time repeated, and other wor 
whose meaning was derived from the breath that bore the 
the lovers parted 

" Forever ? " 

We shall see 



I 



NORA MAYLIE. »J 

Was it Strange, then, that Nora Maylic did not love the 
ity ? that her aunt's splendid drawing-room was a prison to 
^T, and the mustachioed things, caught in the trap the sharp 
tdy was setting for her benefit, a living annoyance ? There 
•as one thing in Nora's favor ; she had an inexhaustible fund 
' good feeling. She could never bear to see even her enemy 
•"^ora was not conscious of having one, however) unhappy, 
hd so she could not be thoroughly unhappy herself. While 
'e feel an interest in a single living being, we are many a 
ood league from misery. Nora felt an interest in a great 
lany. Her aunt treated her with habitual kindness, and for 
er she had gratitude ; her gouty uncle was more like a bear 
\an a human being, and for him she had pity ; a great many 
srsons showed her infinite respect, for which she returned an 
/erflowing measure of the same with a mingling of some- 
ling warmer ; and the few that loved her she loved with all 
.^r heart. Oh no ! Nora was not miserable, but she was sad 
- sometimes very sad ; for her thoughts, in gayety or lone- 
less, were full of Will Waters and her OAvn quiet home. 
!ora was still determined 7wt to be made anything of. 
: And Will? What of him? 

' He turned from Nora Maylie on the evening of their last 
'eeting ; and, standing beneath the bass-wood where he had 
i-st met her, he spread open his heart and character to his 
(vn inspection. ' Long and serious was the examination ; and 
.en, with the centred light of his proud eye mocking the 
lars above him, his fine face full of animation, and his head 
evated with a consciousness of his own powers, he bounded 
cm the love-chafmed circle, leaped the creek, and bent his 
ay homeward. Determination was in his firm step, and 
Dpe glanced from every lineament of his face. Mr. Waters 
id measured off an elder son's portion a few years previous, 
id why might not Will hope the same favor ? The next 
orning he asked, and was refused. Moreover, he was made 
understand that if he married " that shiftless Maylie girl," 
t should not have a cent " to the longest day he lived." 
It was very impolitic as well as d'firespectful in Will 



24 NORA MAYLIE. 

Waters to make the answer he did ; and, for one, I do no 
blame the old gentleman for snubbing him for it. But Wi] ' 
had never been used to such things, and he had no idea oi 
being made a little boy of, in his three-and-twentieth summer 
and so, after a few more words hotly peppered with anger, b 
turned on his heel and walked away. 

" A year and a half have I worked on this farm since 
might have been doing for myself, and all for nothing," mut 
tered Will, as his eye \yandered over the closely-shaven mea 
dows, and the fields of grain, with their upright sheaves-, 
many of which had been bound by his own hand. 

" Well, I have you yet," and he stretched out his stronj 
arm, and regarded it for a moment very affectionately ; thei 
reaching it above his head, he twisted off a heavy bough ann; 
lodged it far away in the meadow. 

" Ha ! ha ! " laughed Will, regarding his own feat with th 
most decided approbation, and clapping his hands togethei 
" shall I beg of an old man, whose acres are his all, with sua 
things as these to carve out a fortune with ? No, no ! WI 
Waters is not a beggar yet ;" and he trudged on right manfullj 

That winter there was one axe rang from the woods fror 
dawn till nine in the morning, and from four till darknes ' 
made the trees almost invisible ; and the remaining hours th 
axe was sheltered beneath a little wood-shed beside the vii 
lage school-house, while its owner presided within. Everj 
body remarked that a wonderful change had come over Wi 
Waters. And what was to be his reward ? How was fai 
Nora Maylie ? Did she stand the winter's test of gayety ? ti 
first, though surrounded by a crowd of admirers, she seeme ! 
to have no preference ; all passed alike before her ; but, ei i 
winter set in, Nora had grown partial. One by one, h« ! 
suitors stood back for the favorite, till Nora scarce ever aj 
peared with anybody but young Horace Dacre. It was sal 
that there was an engagement in the case, that the seal of tb 
ring would soon be appended; and Nora took no pains 1 
deny the charge. Neither did Nora's aunt. On the recei] 
of a letter from her sister, Mrs. Maylie looked up her ben, 



il 



I NORA MAYLIE. 25 

ip, and went into the extravagance of a new silk go\vn. The 
3Xt she heard was that Dacre was married, and that her 
Wghter had had a very narrow escape — she was a bride's 
aid. How anory aunt, and mother, and Rachel, and Matilda, 

I O J ' ' ' > 

nd Susan, and Mary were with Nora ! and how Nora, and 
16 sly bridegroom, and shy bride, congratulated themselves 
1 the success of their provoking ruse d' amour. Oh ! there 
lUSt have been a spice of evil about Nora, notwithstanding 
sr quiet ways. Two thirds of the winter had gone, when 
le astonishing dtnoucment took place ; and there was a most 
iorious Jishi7ig-season well-nigh lost through this silliest of 
trlish freaks. Nothing daunted, however, the manoeuvrer 
'Solved to gather up the scattered fragments of tune still left 
br ; and, to prevent imposition, she took the cards into her 
,vn hands ; and she played so adroitly that a fortune soon 
y at Nora's feet. Nora would have put it beneath her feet, 
id she consulted only her own feelings on the occasion — 
5t that she had any particular dislike for a fortune, but there 
as a certain incumbrance upon it that she did not like. So 
ora, like the foolish girl that she Avas, refused the whole. 

But as fast as Nora said no, Nora's aunt said yes ; and as 
e affirmative could boast superiority in years, Mr. Lever 
he lady's principal objection to the fortune) was inclined to 
link that the affirmative had it. Still Nora was obstinate, 
id her aunt was obstinate, and Mr. Lever was obstinate ; so 
was thought proper to have Mrs. Maylie's counsel. 

Early in the spring, the dressmaker, the milliner, and the 
vo school-mistresses, Avere called home to put the farm-house 
I order for the reception of important guests. It was reportea 
,r and Avide, that Nora Maylie had come home to be mar- 
ed ; a version of matters in Avhich popular gossip invented 
ss than the lady's OAvn friends. "When they told Will 
/"aters, he smiled contemptuously ; and when they told his 
ther, he smiled too, and said he hoped his son Avould re- 
im to reason now. When, however, Nora came home, 
;companied by her aunt and Mr. Lever, the face of Will 
iTaters greAV anxious, and his smile lost its complacency. 

VOL. II. 3 



26 NORA MAYLIE. j 

And now Mr. Lever had plenty of assistants in his wooing, 
and things would have gone on swimmingly, had not Nora 
possessed the most provoking of pliable natures. Had she 
only stormed, and declared that she would sooner die, that they ' 
might kill her, but she would never commit such horrid per- 1 
jury, there would have been some hope ; but when Nora, with' 
her sweet, low voice, repeated every day, " it cannot be 
mother," Mrs. Maylie's heart grew faint, and she was almosi 
tempted to give up the contest. Her sister, however, was ' 
more persevering ; and, finally, affairs were brought to a crisis, 
The father was called in, and, being urged on all sides, he al 
>ast resorted to authority. 

" Obey ! or you are no child of mine ! " was the stern pa- 
.ental injunction. 

Poor Nora ! Should she accept the splendor that was dazv, 
zling all eyes but hers, and buy the favor of those she lovec^ 
most dearly ? or should she go forth upon the world an out- 
cast, oiphaned by worse than death, friendless and penny-, 
less ? 

" You shall have my answer to-morrow," was all that Nore 
said. 

The sun had just looked his last good-night, and many e 
bright cluster of golden rays was loitering in its way heaven- 'i 
ward, when Nora Maybe, attired in her simplest muslin, and 
with the little straw hat she had worn the summer previous ■! 
tied under her chin, stole from the seclusion of her own chanvi 
ber, and glided like a spirit across the fields. When she had- 
reached the old trysting-spot, hedged in by the blackberriej 
and witch-hazel, she pushed aside the bushes, and knelt upoE 
the roots of the now budding bass-wood. Then she arose and 
passed on. She crossed the brook on the stepping stones.!' 
and hurried over the springy ground beyond, until her feel ' 
were bathed in the cold draught held by the deceitful soil,' 
and on she went, still more hurriedly, until her father's broad 
lands all lay behind her. Climbing a fence, Nora was just ' 
losing herself among the stately patriarchs of the forest, when 
she heard her own name pronounced, m tones more of won J 



NORA MAYLIE. 



27 



ler than gladness, and she stood face to face with Will 
Waters. 

1 «• I — -was — was going to the village," remarked the lady, 
ler large eyes turning doubtfully to her lover's, and veiling 
hemselves in alarmed perplexity at the coldness they en- 
countered. 

Nora did not know hoAV many tongues had been busy with 
ihe ear of Will Waters. 

" I will not detain you," was the answer, and with an iron- 
ical smile and a low bow the young man vacated the path. 

" But I hoped — to — to meet — you there." Nora stam- 
nnered excessively, and the color went and came upon her 
iheek with strange precipitancy. 

''Me!" 

" Is it so very strange, then ? I have gone down to the 
knoll by the brook many a time to meet you, Will." 

" Ay ; but then you were " 

"Then I was happy in home and friends — now I have 
neither — you have taught me — not one.'''' 

" Nora ? " 

" You may as well know it, Will — though it matters but 
[ittle now. I came out to tell you that, without your protec- 
tion, I have nowhere to go! I came to ask your advice — 
jrour — your — " 

" Without my protection, Nora ? I do not well see how 
that can be ; but, were you ten times dyed in falsehood, you 
should not ask it in vain ;" and the young man's arms were 
extended, as though, if their shelter could yet be accepted, 
tliey should be a shield that none of the ills of life could pene- 
trate. 

Nora did not draw back, nor yet advance, for she was 
stricken to the heart by this suspicion, where she had ex- 
pected the confidence and sympathy so much needed. The 
large, round tears broke from their dark-fringed enclosure, and 
followed each other silently, gemming her palpitating bod- 
dice ; while the lady answered, almost in a whisper, " I do 
Qot ask it now, Will ! Oh ! you are so, so changed ! " 



28 NORA MAYLIE. 'j 

" It is not I, Nora — look into your own heart if you woulc 
know where the change lies. But, perhaps — perhaps — ' 
and now there was a strange eagerness in the tones of Wil 
Waters — " if there shoidd be a mistake, Nora ! if they hai 
belied you ! if " 

A sudden flash of joy lighted up the face of the young niani 
His supposition became at once reality. He had been a fool 
and she — he did not say what ; but his arms were a littL 
farther advanced and folded over, and Nora Maylie lay withii 
them. Not a word of explanation was necessary now, fo 
heart was beating against heart, and they told their own trui 
story. But words were spoken, nevertheless, so low that th 
light-winged zephyr sitting upon the lip could scarcely hea 
them; yet they proved, beyond a doubt, that Will Water 
and Nora Maylie were both unchanged. And so — and so—, 

We are intruders, dear reader ; let these foolish lovers havi' 
the next hour to themselves. 

The hour is passed, and Will Waters and Nora are beneatl, 
the bass-wood. 

"And if you cannot effect this most cruel compromise, dea 
Nora, you will meet me here at ten to-morrow ? " 

" I will." 

" Do not promise them too much, Nora; do not quite cu; 
off all hope. You are right, I suppose ; I know you must be 
but it is a hard thing for me to consent to. I would not havi ; 
believed that I ever could." 

" You would not but that it is right, Will." 

See that touchingly sweet smile accompanying the ladyV; 
wcrds! Will Waters cannot resist it, and he acknowledges 
with almost idolatrous zeal, who taught him right ; and 
with mutual blessings, they part. 

The compromise ? 

Nora had decided that her friends had no right to force hei, 
mto a marriage which her heart did not sanction, and there- 
fore that she ought to resist it firmly. On the other side, as. 
the bestowal of her hand on Will Waters involved no poim: 
of conscience, obedience was her first duty. This may soun^ 



NORA MAYLIE. 29 

Ice cold reasoning ; but it was arranged with many tears, 
^en witli sobs, there in the little chamber, and it was vvhis- 
jred with anything but coldness in those dear old woods, 
nd, strange enough, the gentleman consented ! Notvvith- 
anding he had become estranged from his own father, and 
r six months had been in the neighborhood of his home 
ithout once stepping his foot over the threshold, he could 
jt but consent to a measure which seemed so much a matter 
' course to Nora, that he was ashamed to offer more than a 
;ore of objections. 

The next morning, while yet the clock was on the stroke 

ten, Nora Maylie pushed aside the witch-hazel and dog- 
ood, and placed her hand within that of Will Waters ; a 
ute acknowledgment that he was her last and only friend, 
id Will accepted the sacred gift as a man should do. Care- 
Uy he led her down to the roadside, where a carriage stood 
ailing them, lifted her to a seat, and they drove away to the 
llage. 

There were tears in the eyes of the fair bride who stood in 
irson Lee's little parlor that morning ; and a proud, happy 
soluteness in the whole air and manner of the bridegroom, 
•ftened and subdued by an appreciation of the touching 
ustfulness that had possessed him of that quivering hand, 
nd so they went forth, they two, with but the rewards of 
Is winter's toil to buy them bread, and with scarce a voice 

cheer them on their way. How everybody laughed when 
was reported that Will Waters had borne his unuseful 
•ide to the wilds of the far west ! As though Will Waters, 
ith his strong arm and strong spirit, and his sweet Nora, with 
3r loving heart, could not make a pathway for themselves 

the wilderness ! 

Please make me another pen, 'Bel; this story drags 
'ockingly. 

■ Not finish it, did you say ? Why, people will think they 
i^rved there in the .woods, or the wolves ate them up, or, at 
fist, that they encountered the ague and fever. 
I" Which is not true?" 

VOL. 11. 3* 



•JO NORA MAYLIE. 

Which is not true. I have called Nora Maylie viy friend 
and so she is, though we did not quite grow up togethei 
The first time that I ever saw her was on the morning of ire 
marriage. The holy man had just put the "amen" to h] 
prayer, when one whom we both love, 'Bel, sent me to th 
village with a pretty bridal bouquet, and I had the honor o 
presenting it myself. The kiss on my cheek, and the ligl: 
touch of that soft hand upon my head, was quite enough t 
secure my little heart forever, even though I had not love 
Will Waters as children usually love those who pet ther 
most. My mother took the young couple into the family 
sympathized with and advised them, and wafted many 
prayer westward after they had gone. 

We never heard that any bad luck happened to Will Wf 
ters, but somehow no news came of his having planted a city 
or given his name to a village, or of having gained emolumei 
to himself; and so it was generally supposed that the youn, 
couple were having plenty of time to repent their folly. i 

It was eight years last spring since Will and Nora wei: 
married, and a year this summer since I saw them. I nevd 
forgot Nora's sweet bridal face ; and when, by the aid of 
dashing steamer, I had measured nearly all the links in tb' 
great northern chain of waters, you may be assured that 
was quite willing to look upon a person that I had seen b( 
fore. And after jolting all day in a big, springless wagoi 
and sleeping at night in a villainous garret, lighted by foi 
panes of glass, that would not shove, sharing my breathinj 
stuff with a dozen others — pah! I will never subject myse 
to such things again, 'Bel ! 

"Ah?" 

Perhaps I would for a sight of those glorious old wood 
and magnificent prairies — nothing short. But, as I wi 
saying, after all this, you may well suppose that I would 1 
grateful for any corner, however small, where the fresh air- 
revelled in by day, might not be wholly shut from me ; 
night. 

We expected to find our friends in rather low circumstance 



NOEA MAYLIE. 31 

and so we inquired at every log hovel for Mr. Waters, and 
every time were answered, " farther on." Everybody seemed 
familiar with the name. We had left the last of these west- 
ern edifices about five miles behind, when suddenly our road 
changed its character; and from having " two Avheels in the 
gutter and two in the air," our clumsy vehicle righted itself, 
and jogged along on all fours with very decent sobriety. At 
the same time, we found ourselves in a fine clearing. A robe 
of variegated gold and green, flounced by a fold of silver in 
the shape of a creek, with here and there groups of trees 
looking into it, was spread out to our view ; and we turned 
questioning glances on each other, wondering if this could be 
, the possession of Will Waters. There was an air of thrift 
i about it that said nay ; while many a little tasteful arrange- 
hient — shade trees left standing where they should be, the 
i brook made to show its bright, mischievous face at bewitching 
intervals, a beautiful grove on a rise of ground beyond, which 
[ookcd as though it was intended to be made something yet 
more beautiful, with a thousand other proofs of a care for 
something less important than clearing the land and raising 
ijood crops, made us waver in our opinion. There was a 
:lump of green that we could not make out in adv'ance of us ; 
md as we drew near, we called on the driver to slacken his 
pai-c while we endeavored to satisfy our curiosity. And what 
think you it was ? Why, a magnificent avenue, fenced in by 
stately old elm trees, and leading up to the most charming 
little bird's tiest that ever nursed such wee witching things as 
we saw frolicking among the vines over-arching the door-way. 

Curiosity stood on tip-toe, and J went up the avenue to 

repeat the inquiry we had so often made before. We saw 
him tap at the door, and caught a glimpse of a white dress 
through a crevice. In a moment he turned back, accompa- 
nied by a charming woman, who glided over the hard path- 
!way with singular gracefulness. We knew our old friend 
Nora at a glance, and we did not allow her to reach the end 
of the avenue before we had her in our arms. She was 
f Scarcely changed. There was the same warm, soul- full ex- 



32 NORA MAYLIE. 

pression in the varying eye ; the same loving smile upon tne 
lip ; with a deeper happiness portrayed in every lineament of 
her eloquent face ; a richer hue of health upon her cheek , 
and a feeling in every glance and movement. J whis- 
pered me that there w^as soul in the very touch'of that foot, 
as it kissed the earth ; and a more careless observer than 

J would have detected the soul in the turn of the white 

neck, and the carriage of the classic head. 

And the bright creatures at the door ? The young mother 
presei;ted them to us with all a mother's love and pride, and 
we were not inclined to undervalue her jewels. 

The house was built of logs, carefully caulked, and was 
white-washed inside and out. Very simple and unpretending 
was it, with its low walls buried by the clinging grape-vines 
which had been brought thither from the wood. And there 
were marks in the pretty garden-patch of Nora's "little spade 
and little hoe," as well as of implements wielded by a heavier 
hand. The lady, doubtless, found more beautiful flowers in 
the woods of Iowa, than those which had received her girlish 
homage in New York. It was a very pleasant room into 
which we were ushered ; but simply enough furnished for the 
cell of a hermit. A piece of furniture answering to a bureau 
stood against the wall, surmounted by a small, well-filled 
book-case ; beneath a window, shaded by a snowy muslin 
curtain, was a couch, evidently an article of home manufac- 
ture, cushioned with a pretty calico; and beyond this, directly 
beneath a plain, cherry-framed mirror, stood something like a 
dressing-table, so completely covered by its simple cloth, that 
eyes less curious than ours might not have discovered the 
while pine feet below, and so judged it to be the work of the 
couch's artisan. Mrs. Waters had indulged in one luxury ; 
those handsome porcelain vases on either corner of her dress- 
ing-table were not useful things, for they could have been 
purchased for no earthly purpose but to hold the flowers 
which were now making the air of the apartment rich with 
their perfume. Possibly, however, they were a present from 
her husband, made sometime after encountering unusual luck 



NORA HIAYLIE. 33 

in trading off his grain. On the same table stood a willow 
work-basket, with the hem of a little cambric apron lying up 
against its rim ; and chairs of basket-work, and a very pretty 
carpet, evidently a recent purchase, completed the furniture 
of the apartment. Not quite, however. There was another 
table, now occupying the centre, with a snow-white cloth 
spread over it, and upon that a simple repast, lacking but the 
smoking tea-urn ; and the cakes which, from the peculiar fla- 
vor emanating from the room beyond, we knew to be in a 
course of preparation. My eyes (I must acknowledge it, 
though I be set down as a table-lover from this day forth) 
turned from the golden-hued butter, and the delicious straw- 
berries peeping their dainty crimson heads from the sweet 
cream in which they nestled so provoldngly, to the promising 
kitchen, and back again, with wondrous eagerness ; when lo ! 
a scream of delight from the little watchers in the door-way, 
and a new comer was introduced among us. 

That wild Will Waters ! 

Wild enough to be sure he seemed then, with his heartily- 
expressed joy at seeing us ; but how came he by that unstud- 
ied polish, that courteous manner, that je ne sais quoi which 
marks the gentleman — how came he by it here in the wil- 
derness, where his whole business must needs be felling trees 
and ploughing land ? So did not Will Waters leave us. He 
was bold and blunt then, and notwithstanding his many en 
gaging qualities, had but little more refinement than his 
neighbors ; but now, though his manliness had not suffered 
by it, you would have believed that he had been a metropoli- 
tar, for a life-time. It was strange, unaccountable — ah no! 
not unaccountable. We turned to the sunny face of the wife ; 
we marked her singularly quiet air, the choice words and 
delicate sentiments that she uttered ; then the sweet, carefully- 
dressed and carefully-taught children, and the neatly-furnished 
apartment ; and the riddle was unfolded. We saw for whom 
that pure white dress had been donned in the close of the day, 
for whom the little muslin collar had been taken from the 
drawer probably half an hour before, and for whom the glossy 
braids of hair were so carefully adjusted about the fine head 



34 



NORA MAYLIE. 



Blessings on sweet Nora Maylie ! True, she was no ge- 
nius ; and she could aot become a teacher, nor a milliner, 
even ; neither was she of the material to be moulded into a 
woman of fashion ; but she was a most charming wife and 
mother. We found her a charming hostess, too, and linger- 
ingly did we turn from her sunlit door. 

When a poet again inquires, " Where is happiness ?" I will 
point him to a little log cottage , nestled among wild grape* 
\ines, in the far-off woods of Iowa. 



GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

Dear lady — thou that reclinest so gracefully upon yon 
sofa, I mean — lady, for a moment close thine eyes upon that 
handsome volume, though its dress of gilded morocco was 
certainly invented on purpose to be pressed by thy dainty 
fingers, and the printed words may make thy heart palpitate 
almost as much as did the whispered ones of the giver. Nay, 
turn them not upon the brilliant chandeliers, nor the volumin- 
ous folds of crimson that shut in the rich, warm light, fleck 
ing the heavy drapery with changing gold and purple ; nor 
let them fall upon the soft, yielding carpet, almost yielding 
enough to bury up thy tiny, slippered foot. No, no ; shut 
out for a moment all these things ; I would turn thine eyes to 
a homelier quarter. Dost see that comfortable old farm-house, 
lady — that with the generous court-yard, broad kitchen gar- 
den and ample out houses ? How trig and nice everything 
is about it, although the season of verdure is quite passed ! 
Look at the ricks of hay, raising their conical heads down in 
the meadow, and the neat stone wall that surrounds the or- 
chard — speak they not of thrift ? Ay, that they do ; but they 
speak of a thing that is passed, so far as the owners of the 
farm-house are concerned. Yet we will not dwell upon that 
now. That lofty well-sweep, resting its tip against the lower 
horn of the moon, is certainly one of the most aspiring of its 
kind ; but it has labored faithfully in the cause of temperance 
for many a long year. This is one of the finest wells in all 
the country round. Wouldst test it ? Close within the curb 
rests the gray old bucket, and it is a right merry feat to fill it 
the brim with the clear, sparkling fluid — that mossy brim, 
that when the October sun shone was as soft as thine own 
lip, lady. 



36 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

It is a cold, frosty night, so let us take a peep within th 
farm-house. The stranger's foot was ever welcomed her( 
The crackling wood fire blazes brightly in the huge fire-plac< 
and sends its cheering rays to the farthest extremity of th 
room, quite overpowering the light of the mould candle th; 
stands upon the oaken chest of drawers. The cross heart 
overhead are set off with festoons of dried fruit, intersperse 
witli bunches of herbs ; and a swing shelf, suspended by br 
of leather attached to the ends, is loaded down with usefi 
books and waste newspapers. The axe has been brougl 
from the wood-shed, and leans against the wall behind th 
door ; above this hangs a hand-saw parallel with the top of 
broom-handle ; and, higher still, an old musket, with its rust 
barrel and broken lock, rests in honored peace from the laboi 
of 76. Articles of wearing apparel, varying from the heav 
lion-skin overcoat to the red flannel blanket, to suit the wani 
of different members of the family, range along the \Aialls, aj 
propriating the goodly number of nails and pegs with whic 
every prominent piece of timber is garnished. Cherry tabk 
and wooden chairs occupy a due space. A large house-do£ 
under one of the former, rests his nose on his two fore paw; 
and looks about him very knowingly, and three or four core 
placent cats occupy as many of the latter as they can conve 
niently appropriate. The floor is bare, but it is scarcely les 
white than the carefully scoured churn, from which a girl o 
sixteen is pouring the bubbling milk, that but a few moment 
since mingled with the flakes of golden-hued butter, noA 
transferred to the snowy bowl. That old lady in the corne 
opposite, with the grey yarn knitting, and muslin cap, i 
granny Bray. She is a good deal bent with age ; time ha 
ploughed deep furrows in her brow and taken all the round 
ness from her cheek; but what a sweet, holy expression i 
left instead ! Love speaks from the midst of wrinkles ani 
paleness and decay; her energies have gone, her vigor i 
wasted, but love is in • her heart — such love as angels feel 
A girl of eight is close beside her, knitting too. She h& 
knotted up her yarn and is " trying a race " with granny 



GRANDFATHER BRAY. 37 

By the table, a boy and girl of ten and twelve are busy a» a 
game of checkers ; and the father, that stout-built, honest-faced 
man with a newspaper, now and then glances from its col- 
umns to the kernels of red and yellow corn "jumping" about 
the board. The remainder of the group are grandfather Bray, 
JNIrs. Hunter, the mother of the young folks, and her little son 
Neddy, grandfather's little pet. Grandfather, though the 
;rown of his head is quite bare, and the sides decorated with 
fleecy ocks, is as erect as a grenadier ; and, if we may judge 
oy present appearances, more to be feared than any son of 
jMars that ever trod the field. He is in a violent passion, a 
Derfect rage. Mrs. Hunter has probably asked some great 
Tavor, and the old man is angered at her assurance. 
I "No! no! no!" 
j « But, father —" 
j " Silence ! I command you, Mary Hunter ! Another word. 

ind you are no child of mine ! I have said and Avill abide by 
; ! James Bray shall never step over this threshold till he 
iomes to look upon his foolish old father's corpse ; you may 
et him see that, Mary." 

I See ! the fine figiire of the matron cowers, and she raises 

ler clasped hands, as if deprecating her father's anger. Now 

gie sinks back upon her chair, rocks to and fro, and tries to 

tifle her sobs in the folds of her neat, checked apron. Mr. 

punter seems to have lost his interest in the newspaper and 

,! [18 game too ; a cloud comes over his bluff, good-humored 

. ^ce, and he springs to his feet with an angry exclamation. 

.; Je checks himself, however, and stalks across the room in 

logged silence. The faces of the young people grow anx- 

;)us, even to paleness, and the beautiful child standing at his 

. irandfather's knee retreats behind him, looking out from the 

. tielter of the high-backed arm chair, with distended eyes and 

arted lips. Granny Bray alone dares speak. With her 

aaking, \vithered hand, she draws a pair of silver-mounted 

bectacles from eyes meek, soft and dove-like, though the 

aze of age has almost obscured their brilliancy, and her 

VOL. II. 4 



38 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

gentle, tremulous tones cannot fail to remind us of the " stil) 
small voice " hushing the tempest. 

" Jacob, the sin of anger leads to other sins ; you are unjust 
to your own flesh and blood. Poor Mary has been an obedi- 
ent child to us for more than thirty years, and it is ungrateful 
to treat her so." 

" Then why does she fret me ? " And the old man, as he 
speaks, flings a relenting glance upon the matron. " I am 
sure I think as much of Mary as you do. Eh, Neddy?" 
He is sorry that there is any cause for disagreement, and that 
IS why he stoops to caress the little fellow, w*ho, reassured by 
the natural tone of his voice, is already tugging at his coat- 
tail. " Don't grandpapa love mother, Ned ? " 

" Yes, but you don't love uncle James, grandpapa, you 
know you don't ; and that is just as wicked as ever it can be." 

The old man starts as though a wasp had stung the hand 
laid upon the boy's head. How his voice is changed ! " Go i 
to your mother, sirrah ! " 

But the brave little fellow is not quite ready to obey ; he 
has not had his say out. His clear grey eye does not blench, i 
as it is fixed on the face of the angry old man, and his voice !' 
rings out like a silver bell. There is a touch of the grand- 
father's own spirit. 

" Do you hate me, too, grandpapa, because I look like ancle 
James ?" 

"Neddy, Neddy ! " exclaims the mother in consternation, 
" you are a very naughty boy, Neddy ; come, come away ta 
bed!" . 

The old man answers not, but his heavy tramp, as he stalks 
about the room, betokens a gathering storm. Only one can ii 
stay its fury, and that is the faithful being, chosen in rosy '' 
youth from a bright throng ; his soother in adversity, his nurse ' 
in sickness, his counsellor in perplexities, his companion and 
never-failing friend through all the vicissitudes of a long life. 
She now drops her knitting upon the table, quite forgetting i 
that she is not in the seam-needle, and hobbling forv/ard, places 
her hand upon his arm. 



11 



GKANDFATIIER BRAY. 39 

! **Take down your Bible, Jacob; consult that; your own 
neart is deceitful." 

"They teach even their children to taunt me, Ann;" but 
:the old man's manner is comparatively gentle. 

** No, no, Jacob ; there you are wrong again. Children 
will be children, and Hunter and Mary are not to blame if 
Neddy is now and then saucy to you. You play with him 
so much that you ought to expect it." 

" I ought to expect it from the face he carries ! " 
j *' Poor James was the most dutiful of sons." The old lady 
sighs, as though the involuntary tribute came from a full heart. 

"DutifuJ 

" Father," says Mar/ you have often told us that brother 
[lames was the kindest and best child you ever had. Don't 
you recollect how he nursed you through that long fever, 
and—" 

! " And how he wheedled me out of all my hard earnings and 
bnade me a beggar in my old age, owing the roof that shelters 
pe to the charity of strangers, and dependent for my bread 
n one who has not a drop of my blood in his veins ! What 
o you say to that, Mary? Thank God, I have yet a roof 
pibove me ! He would have turned me into the streets, but 
Strangers — thank God that I have a roof! and, that, I swear 

y— " 

" Jacob, Jacob !" interposes the mild voice of granny Bray, 
r say nothing you will be sorry for ; you are in a passion. 
lacob, and no good comes of anger." 

" Father," — this is the deep bass of Hunter, who has till 
now remained silent. " Father, just now you spoke of being 
dependent ; you know Mar}'^ and I are glad to be with you 
md right proud to make you comfortable." 

*' Dear heart ! " Whai; a grateful glance accompanies the 
>ld Lady's exclamation. " Jacob, we have the best children 
n the world ! " 

' " All bui one, all but one." This is not all the old man 
•nutters between his teeth ; but perhaps it is as well that we 
\o not hear the rest. 



40 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

" And he is good, too. Nay, Jacob, listen ; James is cm 
first-born ; he was our pride in the days of our strength, before 
we knew how foolish and sinful it was to lay up our treasure 
upon earth. He has taken care of us, and comforted and 
watched over us ; to be sure we leaned upon a broken reed, 
but that was our owti fault ; a better child never lived. He 
has met with misfortunes, and you cannot forgive him for it; 
how' can you expect to be forgiven ? " 

" I do forgive him ; I told minister Dean so ; but I never 
will see him — never, while I have strength to shut the door 
agamst him ! " 

" It does strike me, sir, that this spirit is not befitting a 
man of your years and profession," interposed the bass voice 
bluiitly. 

" It is not for you to call me to account, John Hunter, unless 
indeed — " 

" Do not say it ; do not say it, father," whispered Mary, 
crouching on the floor beside him, and folding her arms over 
his knees; " Hunter is a lion when he is aroused, and you and 
he must be kind to each other." 

"For your sake, Moll; you are a good girl,. and I must 
humor you, if only because you are the baby." 

Peace seems to be restored, and we will retire, lady, while 
I explain in a few words the scene. 

Grandfather Bray was now verging on his eightieth winter, 
and his son James (himself a grandfather) was scarce twenty- 
five years his junior. When James first married, he lived at 
the homestead and cultivated the farm, and as one after 
another of the children made for themselves homes in thr 
neighboring towns, his situation only seemed the more per- 
manent. At last, Mary, the youngest child, left the parental 
roof, and James and his kind family were more necessary to 
the old people than ever. The farm yielded a comfortable 
support for all, and there was no reason why it should not 
continue to do so ; but the demon of speculation entered the 
honest, sensible head of James Bray. The title-deed of the 
farm had been his for several years ; he rashly risked it, and 



GRANDFATHER BRAY. 41 

ost. Through the generosity of creditors, his father received 
a life-lease of the house and garden ; but what was this to the 
sturdy old farmer, who had all his life long gloried in fertile 
fields and overflo\ving granaries ? His very mind was nar- 
rowed down — his faculties cramped by thinking upon his 
diminished fortunes, and they burst forth in anger. While 
the old lady raised her eyes meekly and wondered what her 
poor grandchildren would do, he only raised his voice to ani- 
madvert on what had been done. He declared that he was 
cajoled, cheated, swindled, and he would not bear it. The 
more unreasonable his anger became, the more fire it gathered, 
for indignation ahvays increases in inverse ratio to its right- 
eousness. It was soon found necessary for James to seek 
another dwelling, and this was a much sorer trial to poor 
granny Bray, than the loss of property. James had more of 
his mother's spirit than his father's, and it was a sorrowful 
thins: for him to part in anger from his beloved sire. When 
Mary Hunter took her place by the sacred old hearth-stone, 
he whispered in her ear, " Never cease persuading till 
yriii have made peace ; my conscience tells me that I have 
Ijccn foolish and imprudent, wickedly greedy and covetous of 
this world's goods ; and my father's anger will weigh heavily 
upon me until it is withdrawn." And so Mary's pleading 
voice was often heard ; but it only increased the old man's 
irritability. This was the night before T hanks givmg, and, as 
usual, the children and grandchildren were to join in the 
Thanksgiving merry-making at the dear old homestead. And 
Mary pleaded and pleaded, and cried as though her heart 
would break, when she found her pleadings in vain. Thanks- 
giving came and went, but heavily passed the day at the farm- 
house. Granny Bray said the like had never been known 
since the funeral of poor little Jemmy — the bravest and fairest, 
she had ever since declared, of all her grandchildren. The 
Hunters had done their best to make the festival joyous, bu ; 
no joy was there. Even the young children missed the famil- 
iar faces of their young cousins, and looked thoughtful in the 
midst of their amusement. 

VOL. II. 4* 



42 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

The feast was spread, and it had never been more sumptu- I 
ous ; but nothing seemed as in former times ; the soul of the 
feast was wanting. The love, the unity of feeling, that had 
consecrated it since the now outcast son sat on his father's 
knee, a baby, had been rudely jarred, and the house of feast- 
ing was turned to one of mourning. 

Weeks passed by, and grandfather Bray was as positive 
and unyielding as ever. It was in vain that the sweet, trem- 
ulous tones of his wife preached the duty of forgiveness. ' 

" I have forgiven him," was the uniform reply, " but I never ' 
will forget." i 

Still the old man's stubborness made him miserable, and 
granny Bray, in kindness (whether judiciously or not ia 
aiiotner matter) ceased not to tell him of it every day. 

As New-Year's day approached, a feeling exceedingly un- ■ 
comfortable seemed to pervade the atmosphere of the old 1 
farm-house. It was a festival that had been almost as reli- 
giously observed as Thanksgiying ; and, should it now be neg- 
lected ? Grandfather Bray wished that it might, and looked 
about him for a reason, but none presented itself. As the- \ 
merry anniversary drew near, even the very clouds and sun- ■' | 
shine seemed to have an inkling of the old man's state of 
mind, and to conspire against him. There was a heavy fall 
of snow on the night of the twenty-eighth ; on the twenty- 
ninth the roads were somewhat blocked up, and grandfather 
v/as inclined to think them quite impassable ; indeed, he more 
than hinted that none but madmen would venture out for al 
least a week to come. On the thirtieth, however, sleighs 
flitted here and there like fairy boats on a sea of foam ; and 
such a day as the thirty-first was an era in the life of pleasure- 
lovers. The sleighing was a perfect marvel. Oh, how the 
horses pranced ! And such a jingling of bells ! It was enough 
to turn the whole world of young folks into Robin Goodfellows, 
and make the most withered heart dance within the bosom. 
And hearts did dance, and were mirrored in dancing eyes, 
and sat upon warm, loving lips, and rang out in glad young 
voices ; ay, winter though it was,' the earth was radiant with 



I 



GRANDFATHER BRAY. 43 

Deauty, and the air vocal with a music far more joyous than 
the gush of melody from a summer woodland. The last sun 
'of the old year set in a flood of golden light, and grandfather 
Bray's heart sank within him. That bevy of try-to-be happy 
faces haunted him ; he was sure he could not endure another 
day like the gloomy Thanksgiving ; yet not even a cold had 
he been able to muster, to confine him to his room. The old 
man's face grew longer as the evening deepened ; but as no 
one appeared to observe him, he had no excuse for being surly, 
and was only sad. 

What a bright mornmg was that of the New Year ! the air 
was pure and bracing, and a gay dazzling sunlight played 
:'nany pranks with inclined snow flakes and pendent icicles, 
ind decked old, withered trees in a gayer garniture than that 
:)f spring. Granny Bray, with her usual placid smile, deco- 
rated herself with her newest muslin cap, and folded her 
whitest 'kerchief across her bosom, and then sat down to her 
'fnitling in the corner. Mr. Hunter went about his usual 
inorning avocations, but with unusual alacrity ; his wife took 
Another look at the pies of pumpkin and mince-meat, the 
lough-nuts and cookies and gingerbread, and then turned to 
. whole table full of featherless bipeds, waiting to be roasted ; 
ivhile the children busied themselves in making ^eadJ^ in 
heir own way, for a whole troop of expected cousins. Grand- 
Ither Bray stuinped about the house and barn, and up and 
iown the nice path cut through the snow to the road, then 
Irew on his Sunday coat, and made a desperate attempt at 
heerfulness. But all would not do ; his heart was troubled, 
'ust as the clock was on the stroke of nine, a pretty pony 
ashed up to the door with a light vehicle of a somewhat 
:nique pattern, the self-same little jumper that grandfather 
lad assisted the two boys of his banished son in contriving 
nd making. The reins were held by his own favorite grand- 
i5n , and, by Charley's side, all hooded and cloaked, sat his 
lOung sister Lucy, ready to spring from the sleigh the moment 



" Cousin Lucy I cousin Lucy ! " shouted the noisy chi.dren ; 



44 



GRANDFATHER BRAV 



and before she reached the gate they were all around her, and 
little Eddy had half precipitated her into the snow-drift in the 
attempt to jump astride her neck. 

" How glad we are to see you, cousin Lucy ! " and " Did 
grandfather invite you to New Year's, cozzy?" and "Is uncle 
James coming ? " were among the questions and exclamations 
poured upon the little maiden, as she proceeded to the house. 

Even Charley, who kept his station in the sleigh, was for 
tlie moment forgotten, but it was only a moment. Eddy turned 
back to him, and, with a delighted scream, accomplished the 
feat he attempted with Lucy; and the children, attracted by 
the noise, gathered round the funny little jumper, leaving 
Lucy with her eldest cousin on the threshold. 

" Does grandfather love m.e yet ? " she whispered in Julia's 
ear. 

" I don't know," and Julia shook her head, as though sho 
would have added, " you would n't think he did." 

" Then he never speaks of me ?" inquired the child, in a 
still softer tone. 

"Poor grandfather!" sighed Julia Hunter; and "Poor 
grandfather!" echoed Lucy E ray; "poor dear grandfather! 
It must make him unhappy, not to love everybody; he v/as 
always so good." 

By this time the door turned on its hinges and Lucy step- 
ped into the capacious kitchen, where you and I went, lady, 
the night before Thanksgiving. Grandfather was trying to 
busy himself over a newspaper, but Lucy's quick eye at once 
detected the failure, for it was upside down. " A happy New 
Year, grandfather ! " she said, in a cheerful tone ; and the old 
man, though he raised his hand, and drew back his head, 
could not prevent the dewy, red lips, from meeting his. 

" You are cold, Lucy," he attempted to say in an indiffer- 
ent tone ; but his voice sounded husky and unnatural, and he 
was ashamed to trust it. 

The meeting between granny Bray and her little grand 
daughter was a loving one but the child soon turned away 



GRANDFATHER BRAY, 45 

from the dear old lady, to one who, notwithstanding his faults, 
was none the less dear. 

" I did n't come to stay, grandfather, for I know that it would 
spoil your New Year's to have anybody here that you don't 
love ; but I did want to bring you some of my socks and mit- 
tens, you liked them so much last winter. Don't you remem- 
ber, grandfather, that first pair of mittens ? how they twisted, 
anil the stripes Avent all askew ? and then how you laughed 
at me, and put both my hands into one and tied them fast ? 
But the next pair was done to a charm — don't you recollect? 
Now, look here, grandfather ! " and Lucy began to display the 
contents of her basket. 

Grandfather, however, did not look. There was a slight 
redness about his eyes, and a nervous twitching at the corners 
of his mouth ; but what principally prevented him from look- 
ing was the extreme difficulty he had in firiding his way into 
his pocket, though his only object seemed to be to force an 
entrance, for when he once accomplished the feat he withdrew 
his fingers and tried again. In the mean time, Lucy had pro- 
duced from her basket a neat muslin cap, and granny Bray's 
snoAA-y head was bared to try the effect of her pretty present. 
For thirty years her caps had been made by the same hand, 
and she was sure that no one could suit her but the elder 
Lucy, 

" Tell your mother," said the old lady, " that it was very 
kind in her to think of us ; and especially to-day, when we 
have done the same as to shut the door upon her. Your 
mother is a good woman, Lucy, and you are a good child." 

" Her mother's child," said the old man, struggling with a 
whole throatful of emotion, 

Lucy turned her full eyes upon him ; then they brimmed 
over, and. twining her arms around the old man's neck, she 
buried her face in his bosom and sobbed, " My father's child, 
and yours, dear grandfather; you cannot cast me off!" 

The shaking arms closed around her, as if declaring they 
did not wish to cast her off, and the old man threw a troubled 
glance upon the floor. It was not the place to gain firmness ' 



46 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

for there stood the basket, with the hose and mittens thai 
nobody but Lucy and her mother could knit just right ; and 
upon the top lay a pair of cloth slippers, so comfortable that '! 
his feet felt a strong inclination to creep into them at once. ' 
How he had wanted just such a pair of slippers ! and how 
granny, and Mary, and Mary's daughter, Julia, had fretted 
over them, and at last succeeded in producing a pair that 
would fit the hoofed foot of — of anything that has such feet, 
much better than the pedal extremities of any human being. 
But there was one thing about them that troubled the old 
gentleman more than all the rest. 

The soling was the handiwork of James. There could be 
no mistake about it ; James was ingenious and economical, 
and he had always 3one such things. Grandfather Bray 
drew the back of his horny hand two or three times across 
his eyes ; and his aged partner knitted away very earnestly, 
having — not the tact, oh, no, the old lady was far from being 
celebrated for skill in that line — but the genuine kindness of 
heart, to forbear speaking. Prying eyes overthrow a vast 
amount of good in this world. Honest hearts do not like to 
be looked into, and spied out, and commented upon, much 
better than dishonest ones. Emotion of all kinds is a sacred 
thing, and the man who loves to display it has only the coun- 
terfeit. Grandfather Bray never counterfeited ; it Avas unne- 
cessary, for he was in possession of the true coin. All he 
did was done bluntly and honestly. For a moment he held 
his breath and winked back the moisture from his eyes ; but 
the mute evidences of love and carefulness looked up plead- 
ingly from the child's little basket, and told of by-gone days ; 
and the precious burden within his arms, quivering all over 
with emotion, was too close to his heart not to exert a soften- 
ing influence upon it. 

" God bless you, Lucj''!" at last the old man broke forth 
•' Hush your sobbing, child ; hush ! There, there, my little 
puss, be quiet now, and you shall have everything your own 
way. Children are so wilful now-a-days ! Do you hear, 
pussy ? everything your own way," 



GRANDFATIIEli BRAY. 47 

" Grandfather ! my — do you mean " 

" Mean ! to be sure I do ; mean a great many things '. 
Hop down from my knee. Crying children should never 
kiss; you've sprinkled my face all over with your tears;" 
and grandfather, thinking he had, by this last remark, proved 
the impossibility of any of the tears belonging exclusively to 
himself, rolled the bewildered child from his arm and hurried 
to the door. 

" Hunter ! John Hunter ! How d'ye do, Charley ? come 
here, my boy ! we are to have grand times to-day, and you 
and I must do the little odd jobs, you know. Hunter, harness 
the horses to the big sleigh, and — hem I — and go over to the 
corners and bring — ahem ! — bring James Bray, and all the 
family — all of them, remember, Hunter; down to the cat, if 
Billy has a notion." 

Off started the overjoyed son-in-law with a skip-hop-and- 
jump-step, that made the children send up a merry peal of 
laughter exactly suited to the gayety of the morning ; and 
grandfather Bray joined in the merriment, though very far 
from certain that it was not at his expense. Lucy had heard 
the command ; and she now had both hands clasped about 
her grandfather's arm, with her sweet, sunny face upturned 
and looking into his ; while Charley expressed his joy by 
leaping over the fence and back again three times succes- 
sively. 

Lady, if you could have looked in at grandfather Bray's 
that day ! if you could have heard the stale joke applauded, as 
though that moment coined ! and seen the mirthful faces (to 
say nothing of the steaming meats and smoking gravies) and 
heard the long, loud peal that shook the rafters, mingling 
with the silvery tones of childhood ! If you could have seen 
and heard all this, I do not say that you would have envied 
that joyous party, but you would have w^ondered all the rest 
of the world did not envy them. And Lucy clapped her 
small, dimpled hands, and skipped and frisked about like a 
little kitten ; and Neddy declared that grandfather only hug- 
ged him the closer when they all said he looked like uncle 



48 GRANDFATHER BRAY. 

James. Not a word was said of forgiveness, on either side, 
for when the heart has done its work words are weak things; 
but nevertheless words did pass ; words of care and considera- 
tion, and they were appreciated. 

You will wonder, lady, that I have taken you to such a com- 
mon place, and told you such a very common story ; and I can 
hardly answer why. It must be that you have kept all home 
feelings pure and sacred ; the chain of love that passes around 
your hearth-stone can never have been tarnished by the breath 
of an unjust or unforgiving spirit. Lady, pardon me ; my 
story was intended for unreasonable old men like grandfather 
Bray, and resentful people wrelike his son James ; and I am 
sorry to have detained you so long. Of course, the fire on 
your domestic altar never burns dim ; and you are too gentle | 
and loving to stand up in unbending coldness, because you | 
happen to be in the right. Would that all were like you, 
lady : 



49 



SONNET TO WINTER. 

Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove ; 
And palaces of frost-work, on the eye, 
Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye, 

The pencil, dipped in glorious things above. 
Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair J 

But cold and cheerless as the heart of death. 

Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath, 
One soothing whisper for the ear of Care. 

Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring, 
We watch the bud of promise ; and the flower 
Looks out upon us at the Summer hour; 

And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring ; 
Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold. 
When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold. 



LIGHTS AND SHADES--A SONNET 

If there be light upon my being's cloud, 

I '11 cast o'er other hearts its cheering ray ; 

'T will add new brightness to my toilsome way. 
But when my spirit's sadness doth enshroud 

Hope's coruscations, pleasure's meteor gleam. 
And darkness settles down upon my heart. 
And care exerts her blighting, cankering art, 

Then, then, what I am not I '11 strive to seem ; 
Woe has no right her burden to divide, 
To cast her shadows o'er a sunny soul ; 

VOL. II. 5 



So, though my bark rock on the troubled tide, 
Or lie, half wrecked, upon the hidden shoal, 
The flowers of hope shall garland it the while, 
Though plucked from out her urn in death to smile. 



SONNET. 

THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC* 

An angel breathed upon a budding flower. 

And on that breath the bud went up to heaven, 
Yet left a fragrance in the little bower 

To which its first warm blushes had been given ; 
And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew. 

And so they both had being in the last, 
And on this one distilled heaven's choicest dew. 

And rays of glorious light were on it cast, 
Until the floweret claimed a higher birth. 

And would not open on a scene so drear. 
For it was more of Paradise than earth, 

And strains from thence came ever floating near ; 
And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour, 
The bud of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower..- 

*Lucretia and Margaret Davidson. 



51 



BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 

Some people are bom to wear a coronet, no doubt ; but 
why such things happen on this side of the Atlantic, where 
plain, simple, republican blood alone is allowed to pass cur- 
rent, I cannot imagine. Yet that such things do actually occur 
here, I am certain, and so would you be, dear reader of mine 
if you had ever seen Rosina Brown. Well do I remember 
her — a tall, dark-haired maiden, in the first half of her teens, 
with a form remarkably well developed, an easy air, and a 
very peculiar manner of carrying a head which was in reality 
a very fine head, when it was not thrown back so far as to 
destroy the equilibrium of the figure. In school-girl phrase, 
she was a magnificent creature, with hair like the raven's 
wing, and eyes to match, features of nature's most exquisite 
workmanship, a queen-like figure, and a step like Juno's. 
People less enthusiastic would have said that she was a very 
fine girl, who, if she did not spoirherself by disagreeable airs, 
might become a useful and accomplished woman. We were 
not so tame and common-place, however ; and, from the digni- 
fied Miss Martin, who had come to Alderbrook "merely to 
review her studies," doA\Ti to us lisping Peter Parleyites, we 
al. regarded such equivocal encomiums with the contempt 
they merited. Oh ! how we did lament the vulgarity of 
American society, and deprecate the debasing sentiment which 
is the corner-stone of our government. But for those " rusty- 
fusty old men," who^ut their heads together, as old men are 
forever doing, to destroy all the dear, delightful romance of 
life, by making believe that all the people in the world are 
born free and equal, our splendid beauty might have been at 
least a countess. 

" The head of Zenobia ! " Miss Martin would sigh, and, 



52 BORN TO WEAll A CORONET. 

" Such a head ! " came the echo from lip after lip, with a half- 
lisped finis from the baby-pet, Fanny Forester. 

Alas ! that Nature, who it is generally believed may be im- 
plicitly trusted in matters touching pedigree, should, on this 
occasion, so far forget herself as to send a model for a princess 
of the blood royal across the water, where women are expected 
to wash their own dishes and scrub their own floors ! 

It must have been some awkward mistake, and I have since 
c 3me to the conclusion that Miss Rosina Brown was intended 
for the Queen of England, and the more simple Victoria for 
Miss Rosina Brown. Be that as it may, many were the 
fresh-hearted, simple-souled little damsels who threw up their 
pretty hands in ecstasy at every sentiment she uttered, and 
heard her animadvert on fashion, refinement, and, above all, 
aristocracy, with staring eyes and gaping mouths. Among 
these did Miss Rosina move a queen, though deprived of any 
other court. We vinderstood the contraction of her brow, the 
drawing up of her neck, and the curl of her lip perfectly well ; 
and unfortunate indeed was the stranger who, by some pecu- 
liarity of voice or manner, or the display of some article of 
dress not precisely in accordance with our sovereign's taste, 
called down upon herself these unequivocal marks of disap- 
probation. But Miss Browr>, (if her title must needs be simple 
Miss, pray why couldn't it have been Neville or Montfort, or 
something that had at least a shadow of nobility about it ?) 
Miss Brown, with all her holdings forth on aristocracy, could 
not have defined the word any better than two thirds of the 
b'illiant misses and ambitious mammas that have so well nigh 
exhausted the theme by their continual harpings, both before 
her day and since her settlement. She knew that aristocrats 
were a touch above the \ ulgar, that they lost caste by making 
themselves useful, that they should not come in contact with 
— with — well, even I, her pet pupil, have forgotten whom; 
but it is a class whose traits it is given them to understand 
intuitively. That aristocracy is a shadowy word to me yet ; 
for it is enveloped in the misty veil of Miss Brown's explana- 
tions. I think it conveyed the idea of some exclusive privi- 



BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 53 

leges, I do not recollect what, and a particular way of bowing 
and curtsying, I have forgotten how ; whether it had anything 
to do with the curl of the hair, or bend in the bridge of the 
nose, I cannot say ; but it certainly had with the curvature of 
the lips, for I recollect one sweet little girl was voted plebeian 
by Miss Brown's court, because, after numerous lessons, she 
could not throw up the corners of her pretty mouth, as my 
Zikka does when angered by the bit. Neither do I know 
whether high birth had part or parcel in the matter of making 
an aristocrat, but I half suspect in theory it had ; for I remem- 
ber one young lady who was considered an unfit associate, 
because her father was a " vile mechanic ;" and Miss Brown 
carefully concealed from us the fact, that her dear papa was 
the same Adam Brown, the flower of his profession, who had 
graced so well the character of " mine host," proud, rather 
than ashamed, of the gilt letters emblazoned on the swinging 
sign before his door. Adam Brown was a worthy, pains- 
taking man, kind and affable, and very much of a gentleman 
withal, having not the slightest suspicion that his business 
was incompatible with the maintenance of that character. 
Neither was his fair daughter troubled with any qualms about 
the matter ; but she flitted like the gladsome thing that she 
was among the numerous visitors, laid the snowy cloth, served 
the tea, and performed the thousand other offices that none 
can grace so well as a sweet little girl, flashing with spirit 
and dimpling with good humor. Indeed, though afraid of 
scandalizing myself by the expression of such a sentiment, I 
do more than half suspect that much of Miss Brown's Zeno- 
bian grace was picked up in this very manner. If she did 
not owe the shape of her head to the duties of the hostel, she 
certainly did the carriage of it ; and not a coroneted brow in 
Christendom could bear its honors more proudly than she the 
clustering wealth of her own black tresses. But things were 
not destined to continue long in such an even course. Adam 
Brown died, lamented as men who "act well their parts" 
always will be, and left his daughter an heiress. 

Of such stuff as this are American aristocrats made — they 

VOL. IT. 5*" 



54 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 

lay the parent who has toiled for them in his grave, and rear 
the fabric of their miserable, degrading glory on his ashes. 
Their fathers are honest laborers, they are spendthrifts and 
mountebanks, and their children, if no worse, are beggars. 
(Dear reader ! a word in your ear. From the dash a couple 
of sentences back, not a word of all this rant is mine ; but, 
unluckily, there is leaning over my shoulder a Democratic 
monomaniac — a genuine Jeffersonian Polk-and-Texas-man, 
as he calls himself, and I must needs submit, now and then, 
to an interpolation.) . 

It was a sad day when our clique of exclusives was broken 
up by the loss of the nucleus round which we gathered ; but 
we all promised never, never to forget Rosina Brown, and 
kept the promise as well as school-girls usually do. In a 
short time rumor brought to our ears something, I scarce 
know what, about her marriage ; and, one by one, most of 
us followed in her wake, till scarce a heart in our little band 
but beat the echo to another's throbbings. Then we were 
scattered widely ; none but us " little ones " remaining at 
Alderbrook, and we were of course so fluttered at the idea of 
growing up into womanhood as to forget our a-b-c days en- 
tirely. Even our little keepsakes found their way into the 
ashes, or at best some old bag or oaken chest in the garret j 
and scarce a trace remains to tell of by-gone days, except, 
now and then, a faded flower within the heart, which the 
dews of memory cannot soften into life. Thus lasting are the 
friendships founded on a. momentary fancy, and nourished by 
flattery. Sometimes I felt some interest — not curiosity, oh, 
no ! — in the fate of my dear Rosina; but I always quieted 
myself with the reflection that she must be the star of some 
proud circle ; and, if truth must be told, I had become so in 
love with the quiet, simple beauties of our darling Underbill, 
that I valued her estate but lightly, however high it might be. 
But of its elevation I doubted not ; and when fame conde- 
scended, now and then, to waft the name of some beautiful 
lady, one who was the cynosure of all eyes in her own land, 



BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 55 

across the Atlantic, I involuntarily inquired if she were not 
American born. 

More than a dozen years had passed when I took a journey 
to the far west. Oh ! those wild, luxuriant woods ! Every 
pulse within me dances at the remembrance of them, and 
even yet my heart flutters like a caged bird in sight of its own 
free heaven. How I clapped my hands, and laughed, and 
shouted in baby-like glee, until the old woods rang with 
ten thousand answering echoes. Then how I sat and 
dreamed, till fancy transported me to gay Sherwood, and I 
detected among the changing foliage the Lincoln green, and 
started at every leaf that rustled, expecting to see peering out 
upon me the face of bold Robin Hood, or some one of his 
merry foresters. Oh ! beautiful wild, wild west ! I love 
thee, not " despite thy faults," but, as rare Elia did things 
scarce more loveable, " faults and all." I love even thy cor- 
duroy roads, mud and underbrush, log houses without win- 
dows, quizzing inhabitants, and gruff, bragging hosts, who 
think it very strange that people can have any objection to 
sleeping a dozen in a room, particularly if it be summer, and 
that room has no air-hole but a chink in the wall, made for 
the especial benefit of beetles and musquitoes. 

We had left Will Waters' fine farm away in the distance, 
and commenced our return home. Oh, such roads ! Our 
ample wagon was like a miniature ark of particularly clumsy 
make, now rising on the tip-top of a billow, and suddenly sink- 
ing almost out of sight. Then we had an over- turn, and that 
was the climax of the day's enjoyment ; for nobody was hurt, 
and everybody laughed, and perpetrated stale witticisms and 
laughed at them again ; till the birds were no doubt convinced 
that upsetting a big travelling-wagon is one of the rarest sports 
we humans engage in. Next the horses, panting as though 
worn out by their own strong will, set their forward feet stub- 
bornly down, refusing to part company with the turf even for 
an instant ; the driver flourished his whip and swore roundly , 
the gentlemen coaxed the horses, soothed the driver, and 
laughed with us, who, with comical glances, half of mirth half 



56 LORN TO WEAR A C0RONET. 

of anxiety, nibbled the tips of our kid gloves and wondered 
what we should do. Then all at once one prying fellow of 
our party announced that a spring was broken, a pin lost, or 
something of that sort had occurred, which women are sure 
to get wrong if they mention it afterwards ; to which the pro- 
voking driver responded that a horse had lost a shoe. And 
so, as in duty bound, we all laughed again, not heartily, as 
before, but a nervous, hysterical laugh. The gentlemen 
looked perplexed ; we cast sidelong glances at the woods, as 
though the wolves had already smelt out our discomfiture, and 
were only hiding behind the nearest trees till night-fall ; and 
the driver used harder words than ever. A consultation was 
now held, rather short to be sure, as consultations are apt to 
be when there remains but one path to choose ; and then each 
gentleman tucked his lady under his arm, and on we jogged 
as merrily as before. It might be five miles, indeed it might 
be twenty, to any human habitation, but no — it was only one. 
A neat log cabin, situated in the very centre of a Paradisal 
bower, its white-washed walls nearly concealed by woodbine 
and eglantine, loomed up from an expanse of cleared land ; 
and, all at once, our rejoiced party discovered that we were 
very tired, and could not have lived to walk farther than this 
one mile. Beautiful dark-eyed children, in neat, coarse 
dresses, were playing about the cottage, and .interrupting with 
the cry — "Oh! look here, father!" — "Father! Robin has 
hit the target!" — a tall, sun-embro^vned, intellectual looking 
man, who was reading in the doorway. We were cordially 
welcomed by this man, and shown into a little room full -of 
flowers and green bushes, through the leaves of which the 
hot air, made heavy by the weight of the sunshine, cooled 
itself and dallied lovingly with the flowers, then came to play 
about us who knew so well how to appreciate both its fresh- 
ness and its perfume. 

" A little paradise ! " whispered I. 

" Almost equal to the nestling-place of your friend Nora," 
returned J — , in the same tone. 



BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 57 

" A pretty good house-keeper for the woods, I imagine," 
added another of our party. 

' House-keeper, indeed ! Who would think of a house- 
keeper's arranging all this ? It was undoubtedly some little 
sprite with taste enough to prefer such a bright spot to fairy- 
land ! " And I tossed my head in make-believe playfulness ; 
but, in reality, feeling quite resentful that any one should 
think of such prosaic things as house-keeping in a place like 
this. 

So I looked about among the foliage for my sylvan deity, 
but nothing was there more fairy-like than a domesticated 
robin, which, perched on a fresh bough that waved above the 
snowy pine mantel, was practising a little duet with its part- 
ner in the fragrant bass-wood, just beyond the court-yard 
fence. But we had no more time for observation or remark. 
Our hostess, a young Avoman of dignified, matronly air, as 
unlike a fairy as anything you can imagine, came in to wel- 
come us ; and, shortly after, we were seated around a plenti- 
ful board, smoking with hot corn cakes, and the most fragrant 
imperial, and — oh! didn't we do justice to these same? 
And did the fresh cream, and the strawberries, and the snovry 
cold bread for those who preferred it, and the raspberry jam, 
or any of the other nice things, suffer from neglect ? During 
the repast the fine eye§ of our hostess frequently turned on 
me, and there was such a peculiar attraction in their deep 
darkness, that mine invariably met them. Then there was a 
little blushing, a little confusion on both sides, and a resolu- 
tion on my part not to be so rude and stare so again. After 
tea we repaired to the little embowered parlor, while our 
hostess was " putting things to rights," and in less than a half 
hour were joined by her and her htisband. They kept up an 
interesting conversation, but I was silent and perplexed. 
There was something in the face, air, and manner of this 
woodland lady that was familiar ; and at the same time I was 
sure that I had never seen any one so dignified, so self-pos- 
sessed, and yet so simple and unaffected in every word and 



5S BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 

movement. I ran over my list of acquaintances that had 
" married and gone west ;" but no, it Avas none of these. '■*' 

"Fanny'" exclaimed J., somewhat impatiently, "are youjit 
dreaming? I have spoken to you three times without getting pi 
an answer. Our host tells me that his wife spent some of i 



her school-days at Alderbrook." 

" At Alderbrook ? " 

It came like a flash of light. 

" Rosina Brown ! " 

" My little Fanny ! " and we were locked fast in each oth- 
er's arms. 

My countess, my queen, here in the wilderness, actually 
washing her own dishes, and sweeping the floor of her own 
log-house, and " not always with a civilized broom either," as 
she laughingly asserted. Only think of it ! Of course I was 
astounded ; and no wonder that I did n't venture on asking a 
single question, while she overpowered me with a whole vol- 
ley. But at midnight, when all were'asleep within, and the 
stars alone kept watch without, (Rosina assured me that there 
was not a wolf in the whole neighborhood,) we stole away, 
and beneath the silent trees renewed our former intimacy. 

" And so you wonder," said Rosina, " at my being here. 
Well, so do I sometimes ; but oftener I wonder why I am so 
happy, so contented, so willingly circumscribed in my want? 
and desires, and yet so free in soul and fancy. Believe me, 
Fanny, I never before knew a single day of such pure, unal- 
loyed happiness as I have enjoyed every day since we shel- 
tered our pretty birds within this forest nook. Don't you 
think they are pretty, Fanny ? They stole their red cheeks 
from the dewy flowers, and their bright eyes have grown 
brighter by looking on the teautiful things about them. Then 
these stately old trees have made them thoughtful and deep- 
hearted ; and they are little musicians, too, vying with the 
woodland minstrels in melody." 

" Perfect cherubs — and so happy and healthful !" 

" Yes — happy, and healthful, and frolicsome, as the young 
colts you must have passed when you wound around the bend 



BOKN TO WEAIl A CORONh 



09 



ba] 



n the creek. They used often to be sick, and I watched 
jeside them until all the color was gone from my cheek, and I 
icquired this stoop in my shoulders — see! I never shall be 
traight again ! " 

"Ohl I should n't observe it at all — it is very slight in- 
ieed, and you will soon overcome it. But do tell me how it. 
happened that you, of all others, should marry a farmer, and 

and — " 

" A poor man, you would say. I did not." 
I; And then I listened to a story, of which I should never 
pave dreamed that Rosina Brown could be the subject. 
1 Rosina had met Richard Merrival several times before she 
came to Alderbrook, and their acquaintance was renewed 
every vacation. So when she had " finished," and he threw 
bff the student and was admitted to the bar, it was no great 
wonder that he pleaded his first cause in the queenly presence 
jof Rosina Brown. It were a pity, ind."'ed, if such a handsome 
young barrister should plead in vain ; and so Merrival en- 
snared his lady-bird, and bore her away to toAvn ; and there, 
;in an elegant mansion, surrounded by every luxury, their 
thief study seemed to be how to make everything about them 
inore luxurious still. At length their means failed, and Mer- 
rival applied to his father. But this fountain of wealth 
[was dry. Failure had followed up the old man's golden 
'schemes, and Richard Merrival and his father were beggars. 
Rosina saw herself falling; she knew that the magic circle of 
which she had been the brightest star was shutting her with- 
out its pale ; the glittering bubble, which, in her girlish days, 
she believed it the chief aim of her life to grasp closely, was 
crushed within her hand. All that was bright, all that was 
gladsome, all that was worthy of possession in this world — 
every meteor that for long years she had gazed upon and 
believed a sim — all the roses that had clustered so luxuriantly 
about her path — all receded now, and the world lay stretched 
out before her, a wilderness. And yet, an old friend came, 
one who had loved her when a little girl in the inn by the 
way-side, and she would not know him. No ! come poverty, 



60 BORN TO WEAR A CORONET. 

come beggary, come starvation even, — these should not oow 
her spirit to go back to things she had despised. She could 
suffer, but she would not bend. And so the old friend went 
away, and Rosina wondered where she should find bread fol 
her children. 

But Merrival, though he had spent years in idleness, was 
gifted and eloquent. He knew that his profession was a for- 
tune in itself, and he gathered strength, as manliness ever I 
does when struggling with obstacles. With a heart some- 1 
what lightened, he sat down by his humble fireside at evening,! 
to gain sympathy from the loved ones. But discontent and| 
misery were there. His wife complained; his pamperedj 
children missed their accustomed luxuries, and they com-} 
plained also ; recrimination followed between the husband and 
the wife, and they lay down to rest with hearts full of bitter- 
ness toward each other. Wlien the whole world is the object 
of bitterness the individual is never spared. 

Weeks passed, and Richard Merrival grew gay again ; but 
It was over the cup of death. His laugh was long and loud, 
and his eye had a fearful sparkle to it — a. flash that every one 
knew was but the kindling of pent-up misery. The little cot- 
tage grew dark and darker, the loving heart grew desolate ; 
but on the top wave of anguish rode always the harrowing 
thought — " Bread ! bread for the little ones whom God has 
given me ! " 

Months — years went by, and Rosina was a drunkard's 
wife ! Not a tithe of the degradation of such a lot was 
abated ; but the bitterness of her spirit was drowned in sor- 
row. She had watched day and night by the bed-side of 
innocence, and she grew gentle in such an atmosphere. Then 
she laid two of her s\veet nurslings in the grave, and so a link 
was forged between her heart and heaven. 

A change :ame over Merrival. Poverty had taken up its 
abode by his fireside ; suffering and sorrow were there, but 
none of these had driven him thence. It was the bitterness 
of crushed pride ; and that was a guest there no longer. He 
laid his hand upon the icy forehead of his dead child, his first- 



BORN TO WEAK A CORONET. 61 

bom darling boy, and took upon his soul a voav, and that vow 
never was broken. And now behold them, pale and weary, 
but calm and hopeful, wending their way to the far west, 
where they might forget their vain dreams and their degrada- 
tion together. 

" We are yet poor in gold and lands," continued Rosina, 
"but are rich in health and peace, in our children, and in 
each other. And now, my dear Fanny," she added, as we 
turned toward the house, " I am as aristocratic as ever We 
lord it over the natives of these wilds, the birds and beasts, as 
though we were peers of the realm — Nature's realm — and 
claim the exclusive privilege of making each other happy, and 
of offering our humble roof to the stranger benighted in these 
woods, — privileges which not a living thing about us ventures 
to exercise." 

" But do you never long for society, Rosina ? " 

"Society?" 

She led me to a couch where two living rose-buds, two 
bright-lipped sleeping Hebes, lay nestling in each other's 
arms, and throwing back rich clusters of golden curls, kissed 
cheek, and lip, and forehead, — a gentle, loving pressure, so 
mother-like that a tear sprang to my eye, for I seemed again 
Ijring in my ovm little cot at Alderbrook. 

" Look at these, Fanny ; and my two noble boys ! What 
more society could I desire, unless it be his .' I wish you 
knew my husband, Fanny. I used to boast that he Avas a 
perfect gentleman, and so he was ; but that is an abused term, 
and now I know the highest praise that I can offer ;? ♦hat he 
is a man! — in heart, and soul, and intellect, a man — l\ill of 
integrity, and courage, and strength, and truth — in short, my 
little Fanny, he is, as I suppose every loving wife thinks of 
her lucky Benedict — the one man in the tvorld ! " 

It was almost morning when Mrs. Merrival and myself 
gave the good-night kiss, and turned away to dream of our 
school-days at Alderbrook. 

When the sun arose, and the discovery was made that we 
should be detained a whole day and night longer in our par- 

VOL. II. 6 



62 BORN TO WEAiJ A CORONET. 

lor-bower, my resignation on the occasion entitled me to become 
pattern-woman for the whole party ; and our hostess looked 
anything but sad at our discomfiture. It was a happy day ; 
and, when evening came again, I no longer wondered that 
Rosina was satisfied with her society. In the course of the 
day I took a peep into the little library, composed of a few 
choice volumes, to which the Merrivals had clung in weal and, 
woe ; walked into the garden and viewed, not only the wall 
fiowers and sweet peas, but the beans and cabbages ; and then 
went to the log barn across the creek, and brought in our 
own hands the fresh eggs that were served up for dinner. I 
learned, also, that JVI^ster Robert Merrival, the active little 
fellow who had just " hit the target," on our arrival, mounted 
the pony Roger every Saturday, and rode off fifteen miles, to 
the nearest post-office, whence he returned well . laden with 
papers and letters. 

Another morning came, and we turned with reluctance 
from our parlor-bower, and with still more reluctance from the 
dear ones who had constructed it, to pursue our journey. 
The adieus, the prayers and prophecies, the clasping of hands 
and kissing of lips, I will not attempt to describe ; neither the 
heart-swell that it took so many miles to calm ; for I would 
not leave a tear here at the close of my tale. So we parted, 
the Alderbrook Zenobia and her little worshipper. A strange 
throne that of rare Rosina Bro-v^Ti's ! — her hut away in the 

green wilderness. And yet — and yet, I do believe 

Well ! I will not brave a straight-jacket for the sake of having 
mTj say ; but whatever mistake Fortune may have made in 
the execution of her plan, of one thing I am certain, my 
proud-browed friend was at least born to wear a coronet. J. 
says I am mistaken ; that I must be thinking of her husband's 
" crown. 



63 



WILLARD LAWSON. 

CHAPTER I. LEAVING HOME; 

" You will be sorry for it, Willard." 

" Sorry ! I tell you, Sophy, I have been in leading string-a 
long enough ; and I will go where I can, now and then, do as 
I choose ! " 

" You will be back in less than three days." 

" No, not in less than three years. Come, tell me what 
I shall bring you from over the seas ; they have all sorts of 
gimcracks in the Indies, and, maybe, I shall go to China, 
or — " 

" Or take a peep into Symm's hole, or a ride on the roc's 
back. Bring me a pair of slippers from Lilliput." 

" I will bring you a pair so small that you cannot wear 
them, if that is what you like ; and a rare India shawl, to beat 
cousin Meg's." 

" I hope you will get your purse well replenished ; I dare 
say. you will find them in New York." 

" New York ! " 

" Don't speak so contemptuously of our mammoth city, 
Will ; there will be a little fading out of those handsome curls, 
I dare say, before you will see a larger." 

" I tell you, Sophy, I am going to sea. "What part of the 
world I may visit, I don't know ; but it will be many a long 
year before you will see me again." 

" Nonsense, Will, think of scrambling up ropes and perch- 
ing in the air like a monkey ! You have always had a taste 
that way, I know, but try it in a gale, and you would soon 
come to the conclusion that you had a little too much of it. 
Come, this freak of yours is all nonsense ; be obedient, and 
father will be kind to you, but you know it was wrong for you 
to go " 



64 WILLARD LAWSON. 

" I know it was not wrong, Sophy, and I am glad I went. 
I should like to know what right anybody has to hinder me 
from speaking to a school-fellow now and then, or even from 
shaking my toe in a dance, if I choose. Wondrous good 
some people are, indeed ! I wish they would tell me how 
much w )rse dancing is than anger ; and did n't you see how 
pale he turned ? James turned pale, too, for I believe he 
thought I would get knocked down. I almost wish he had 
done it." 

"WiUard!" 

" He drives me to it, Sophy." 

" If you go away with these bad feelings, I am afraid you 
never will come back again." 

" Maybe — but — yes, I shall — of course I shall. I shall 
want to see you, and — and all. Oh, I shall come back some- 
time." 

" I am afraid not, WiUard." 

The observation seemed to induce a new train of thought, 
for the boy's excited countenance assumed an unusual sober- 
ness ; a tear crept to his eye and twinkled on the upraised 
lash, but he brushed it hastily away, and with a " never fear 
for that, Sophy," sprang to the door, as though afraid to trust 
his voice with another word. The sister waited awhile for his 
return, thinking that he would at least bid her a good-night ; 
but when she perceived that he was not coming, she began to 
persuade herself that he was ashamed of his folly and would 
be in oetter temper in the morning, or that her father would 
abate some of his sternness ; at any rate, somehow, the diffi- 
culty would be settled, as others had been before ; and so she 
went to sleep. These troubles were nothing new to her. 
Judge Lawson was a noble-minded, upright man, who exer- 
cised a kind of patriarchal sway, not only in his family, but 
over the whole neighborhood. He was a good father and a 
kind neighbor in the main, but stern and self-willed; all 
suavity and gentleness when obeyed, but woe to the luckless 
one who dared to oppose his plans or wishes ! To such, 
if the truth must be owned, Judge Lawson was a tyrant. He 



WILLARD LAWSON. 65 

liad managed, however, without unpleasant bickerings, to 
bring up his family in the strictest integrity; and they were 
now about him, doing honor to his gray hairs. They had 
yielded to him ; he had led them wisely, and now they 
honored him with all their hearts. Sons and sons-in-law 
looked up to him with reverence ; all but a bold, daring boy, 
his youngest child, the handsomest and the bravest, but, alas ! 
so full of faults ! Willard had talents, but he did not like the 
trouble of cultivating them ; like many another, he was so 
well satisfied with his natural acuteness, that he could see no 
necessity for bestowing labor on the mental soil. Mistaken 
Willard ! Mista'ken thousands ! He was spirited as a young 
colt that spurns the bit, and grew restive under his father's 
control before he had reached a dozen summers. Now he had 
grown into a tall stripling, and considered himself very nearly 
a man, and was he to be led about like a baby? I think — I 
do not know — but I really think that if Judge Lawson had 
not been quite so authoritative and unbending, his son Willard 
would have been more manageable ; but yet I must admit that 
the Judge never required anything of him which was not 
right. Then Willard was frank and joyous, with a heart full 
of generous sentiments and brimming over with sympathy and 
kindness ; and it must be owned that there was something 
which shut down over his spirit like a lid whenever he entered 
his father's house. He had felt it when a little boy playing in 
the sunshine on the lawn ; and used to think, when called in 
at evening, of the atmosphere of a damp, dark cellar in the 
spring-time ; but the uncomfortable feeling had increased as 
he grew older, and now Willard Lawson did not love his 
home. It was a rare good place for his intellect, but there 
was no room there for his heart to expand. All were kind, 
his sister Sophia especially so, but it was a kindness which 
was always smooth, and even, and cold ; no bubbling, no sud- 
den gushes, like the spring which lures the travel-stained 
wanderer from the way-side, or the fountain leaping up at the 
kiss of the breezes and the glancd of the sun-ligiu ; but a quiet, 
cahn, lifeless sort of kindness, that seemed to lack that uni' 

■"OL. II. 6* 



66 WILLARD LAWSON. 

versal inspiration — love. So he went away from home for 
society, not always selecting the best, for how could the boy 
know how to choose rightly? He found more sympathy 
without doors than within, and so Willard Lawson, young as 
he was, had set both feet resolutely in a most dangerous path. 
Beware, Willard ! Nay, but he will not beware ; he has 
•'been in leading strings long enough," and he has resolved 
en emancipation. 

How much Willard Lawson slept that night I will not 
attempt to say ; how many misgivings visited his heart in the 
lone darkness, or how much dearer his home became as he 
thought upon the words of his sister : " If you leave us with 
these bad feelings, I am afraid you never will come back 
again." The thoughts and emotions were his own, his own 
to brood over, his own to hmy; forget he probably never 
would. Morning dawned at last, and by the first faint glim- 
mer Willard rose and dressed himself. He then walked 
about the little room as though taking a farewell of every 
article of furniture, and looked from the window, and walked 
again, till a tear, actually a big round tear, rolled from his 
eyes like a red-hot bullet, and dropped upon his hand. He 
was alone now, and so it was no shame to weep ; and Willard 
did not even put a hand to his eyes while the liquid sorrow 
rained down over his cheeks in torrents. Poor boy ! It is a 
pitiful thing to forsake the roof which sheltered us in our 
helplessness ; where the only real love the wide earth knows 
beamed on our infant eyes ; where tenderness and purity and 
truth bud and blossom in the sunshine of kindness and the 
dew of innocence; the dear hallowed hearth-stone, circled 
round with sacred affections, — pitiful to leave it, and for 
what? Thank God for the gilded veil behind which the 
Protean future is allowed to conceal her features ! Who 
would look into the book of fate and read at a glance his ovm 
destiny? Willard Lawson had no very bright hopes this 
morning ; for the false star glittering but yesterday before his 
eyes, had set in darkness, been extinguished in tears. He 
had laughed and sported in that room, he had slept there 



WILLARD LAWSON. 67 

while angels guarded him, he had lisped his first prayers 
there, and there too had he almost forgotten the duty. He 
was still but a boy, and yet he was very much changed ; and 
he thought upon this change with sadness. What an inno- 
cent little fellow he was when he went to sleep hugging his 
first top to his bosom, and thinking what a dear good papa 
his was to bring such an invaluable present from the town I 
And how often, in his childish reverence, had he thought of 
that same father, and wondered if his Heavenly Father could 
be any better or any wiser ! And how disobedient he had 
been of late, and self-willed, and disrespectful ; in actions 
rather than words, and in thoughts more than either. Dost 
thou relent, Willard ? Is there not a softening in thy heart ? 
Are not thy lips moving to the words, " I will arise and go 
unto my father ? " Ah ! stay thee, rash youth ! Gently, 
gently ! There is a balm in penitential tears ! I already see 
the rainbow arching thy heart. It is a precious moment, 
Willard ; beware I Nay, all is lost ! That movement below, 
followed by the whistle of Bluff Bill, the man-of-all-work, has 
sent other thoughts into the head of the stripling, and the 
scale is turned. The tears are brushed away, and in quiet, 
but hurriedly, the room is left without a tenant. 

Willard stood in the yard, beneath the dear old trees where 
he had sported in childhood. The large, long-limbed butter- 
nut had never seemed so beautiful as now, since the day when, 
an urchin in petticoats, he had scrambled up its jagged trunk 
to get a peep into the snug little home of Madam Redbreast, 
and came down again amid huzzas and chidings ; and as for 
the elm trees, he had pruned them himself many a time, and 
he had watched them year after year, till he knew the position 
of every graceful branch against the sky, as he knew the 
places of the children at his father's table. There was a 
locust precisely his own age, and the circumstance had been 
so often mentioned, that he felt as though somehow that tree 
belonged to him — was linked to his life — was a part of him- 
self, which he ought to carry away, or rather which he ought 
to stay and cherish. He cast a glance around to see that no 



68 WILLARD LAWSON. 

one was near , and then he threw his arms about the dear old 
tree, and pressed his hps to the rough, dewrspangled bark, as 
though it had been a living object of love. This done, he 
looked back upon the house hurriedly, and passed on. In the 
stable stood gay Larry, the fine young saddle-horse, which 
turned at the sound of his voice, and laid his finely arched 
neck over his shoulder, with all the affection of a child; and 
he patted the animal and passed his. hand over his smooth 
glossy skin, and then buried his face in the flowing mane 
and wept unrestrainedly. Poor Willard ! Larry was an old 
playmate, and that Larry loved him was clear, for to no other 

ne was he so gentle and obedient. Oh, if Larry could but 
go with him ! Our hearts warm toward thee, dear Willard, 
more than they did a half-hour since, when th,e careless 
whistle of Bill awakened thee to all thy stubbornness; for there 

s that in thy spirit which the angels know to be priceless. 
Thou art even as mettlesome as thy pet Larry ; but thou art 
good and noble, too, for thou lovest the poor dumb animals 
which look up to thee for care and protection, even as thou 
shouldst look to Heaven. Mayst thou never lose the manly 
softness, young Willard ! The lad found as he passed on 
that he had bestowed more love on Lawson farm than he had 
i)nagined. The cows — one in particular, which had always 
been called his — looked into his face with a kind of pleading 
mournfulness — a sad, beseeching expression, that seemed to 
him made up of love and censure ; and then they came 
lowing after him, as though they would yet entreat his return. 
Even the fowls gathered about his feet fainiliarly, and raised 
a chorus of sounds which it was not difiicult for him to inter- 
pret. " Sir Chaunticlere" shook his long parti-colored plumes 
ominously, and sent out a shrill, high-ringing warning ; the 
hens, cackling, flocked before him, like a swarm of butterflies 
in August; and a dove flew from its perch to his shoulder, 
and then nestled in his bosom, looking up to him, with its 
warm, melting eyes swimming in love as his were in tears 
There is yet time to retract, Willard. Take back those dan- 
gerous steps, and no one will know they have beeri troddeq. 



WILLARD LAWSON. 69 

No, this is not among things possible to the boy. The part- 
ing is taking the very life from the innermost core of his 
heart, tearing away the threads which invisible fingers have 
been braiding within, ever since his baby foot first tottered on 
the threshold of being : but who ever suspected Willard Law- 
son of wavering or fickleness? Why, we might as soon 
expect the judge himself to change his mind and reverse a 
decision ! Willard, boy as he is, will never hesitate and falter 
after he has resolved; but it is no part of his philosophy to 
dispense with feeling. Perhaps — I am not sure how strong 
the sense of right may be in his bosom — but, perhaps, if he 
were thoroughly convinced that he was taking a wrong step, 
one which he would regret in all after life, he might yet be 
induced to go back and nestle again, more lovingly than ever, 
among the dear old associations Avhich are clustering around 
him, striving to entangle for good his erring feet. But 
Willard, with his bold, free spirit swelling in his bosom, will 
never stay with Larry and the other dumb things that love 
him, at what his boyish inexperience deems a sacrifice of his 
yet unbearded manliness. 

Willard passed from the barnyard without venturing to 
look upon the garden patch, for he had had chiding enough 
without listening to the gentle murmurs of the green things 
that the morning breeze was dallying with ; and leaping the 
stile, he took his way across a rich field of clover, which the 
little spirits of the night and the messenger sun-rays had 
decked out in matchless diadems. Sometimes a little sheet 
of gossamer, fastened to shafts of emerald, gleamed with all 
the colors of the rainbow, here and there breaking from its 
fastenings, as highly gifted spirits sometimes sink beneath the 
weight of tneir own wealth. Spires of grass bent beneath 
clusters of the same jewels ; and the fragrant clover-heads and 
nodding butter-cups flashed and sparkled like the coronet of a 
duchess. Birds, sweet, glad little creatures, with wings and 
voices but too familiar, carolled from the tree-tops, or wheeled 
and careered in mid-air, mad with exultant happiness, (blessed 
npirits of the air !) and the bee, in his glossy black coat, with 



70 "WILLARD LAWSON. 

more gold than even a gay courtier of the olden time would 
have cared to deck his mantle vi^ith, sped beneath the soft 
clouds Wee an arrow, and plunged headlong among the luxu- 
riant sweets of the fragrant clover blossoms. How all these 
glad things contrasted with the heavy spirit of the young 
wanderer ! A stream went dancing and bubbling hy, right 
il^errily ; and close beside the rustic bridge was a deep place, 
where he had angled for trout for many a summer. Willard 
glanced at it and seemed inclined to stop, then passed on — 
returned again, and kneeling' down, bent his head far over 
and peered earnestly down into the water, A fin swept by, 
with a thin layer of silver over it ; and he caught a glimpse 
of a mottled back, crimson and amber, and a pale, soft azure 
in a setting of gray. Another followed, and then came a troop 
of little silver things, huriying after each other, as though oil 
their way to a fairy wedding, scarce rippling the water as they 
went. Willard caught by a branch of the birch tree that grew 
there when he first opened his eyes on the landscape, and 
swung himself to the bank. His seat was as soft as the rich- 
est carpet, woven of glossy brown and gold ; and as he again 
bent over the stream, he scooped up handfuls of the cold water 
and dashed them over his burning face, jewelling his wavy 
hair and the luxurious bank together. Along the borders of 
the stream grew clumps of willows, their narrow leaves trem- 
bling on the breath of the morning, and now and then a wild 
elm, shagged with green away down to the earth, or a round- 
topped maple, or a silver-coated beech ; and at their roots 
sprang troops of flowers, bending their blue and crimson cups 
to the water, while in the spots of light breaking through their 
branches swarmed clans of bright-hued insects, dipping their 
gay wmgs in the liquid gold of morning, and warming their 
bloodless limbs at the heart of nature. It was beautiful, and 
Willard had often thought so ; but now his heart yearned to- 
ward the familiar scene, and he would have taken the whole 
to his bosom and folded his arms about it as tenderly as a 
mother clasps the child she dotes upon. Again the tears 
rushed to his eyes, and again he dashed the cool water upon 



WILLARD LAWSON. 71 

his face ; and, without turning for another glance, hurried on. 
Tlie sheep were speckling the green of the neighboring pas- 
tures, and the horses were bounding and tossing their manes 
in play, or quietly cropping the grass at their feet ; but Wil- 
lard had grown wiser and did not trust himself among them. 
He sprang over the fence and proceeded resolutely along the 
roadside. But his trials were not yet over. With a cry of 
|oy, that seemed almost human, a dog rushed over the banks 
among the thorny bushes, scattering doA\'n a shower of rain- 
drops, bounded over the fence, and leaped, quivering all over 
with gladness, to the shoulders of his young master. 

" Good dog ! good Rover ! " exclaimed the boy, in a husky, 
broken voice, patting the head and smoothing the neck of his 
favorite. " Good fellow ! I did not want to scold you, and 
so — Bill should have known better than to set you free. 
But I must take nothing, not even my o^vn dog, from the 
farm. Go back. Rover, go back ! " 

The dog seemed to understand the words, though they 
were spoken low and sorrowfully and without a gesture, and 
he looked up with his large meek eyes into the boy's face — 
oh, so pleadingly ! Poor Willard's heart had been swelling 
until his bosom seemed hardly large enough to contain it, but 
this last appeal was too much ; and, with uncontrollable sob- 
bings, he threw himself u^on the neck of his dumb favorite, 
and clung to him as though he had no other'associate or friend 
on earth. And he had no other now. Poor Willard ! For 
awhile the wanderer sobbed on in utter abandonment ; the 
dog now thrusting his nose into his bosom, now licking his 
hands and face, and striving by such mute eloquence to win 
him from his grief, whatever might have occasioned it. At 
last the youth mastered the emotion, and with trembling lip 
and swimming eye -stood again upon his feet. 

" Go home, Rover — go ! Go, Rover ! Rascal ! down ! 
do-wn ! go home I " 

The dog, at the first command, given falteringly, had 
sprung again to his master's shoulders, wagging his tail, as 
though to congratulate him on his restored calmness. But at 



72 WILLARD LAWSON. 

the last words, spoken authoritatively, he crouched at his feet, 
whining piteously, and looking up to his face with the most 
beseeching fondness. If the eyes be the mirror of the soul, 
what a soul some brute animals must have ! Willard turned 
his head from their chidnig, appealing gaze, and choked down 
the heart that was springing to his throat, while, in a louder 
and still more commanding tone, he exclaimed, pointing with 
his finger and stamping with his foot, " Back, Rover ! Go 
home ! " 

The dog only lowered his head quite to the dust, and 
whined more piteously than before. Perhaps Willard was 
afraid to trust his voice again, but he certainly was resolved 
on making the animal obey him. Taking a knife from his 
pocket, he proceeded, not very deliberately, to a tree which 
drooped its heavy branches over the stone wall by the way- 
side. The dog did not move, but his large, pitiful eyes fol- 
lowed his young master to the tree, and watched him with a 
look of meek sorrow while he cut a limb from it and hastily 
trimmed away the leaves. But — as he returned ! Willard 
was within a yard of his mutely eloquent friend, when the 
dog seemed of a sudden to comprehend his intent; and with 
a sharp, piercing cry, made up of more emotions than often 
swell in a human bosom — a cry of intense, heart-crushing 
anguish — he leaped the fence and" bounded away. Willard 
Avatched him ; not with tears now, for there was something 
horrifying in what he had done, but with a kind of awe- 
stricken fear, until he reached the little bridge which had been 
thrown over the creek in the pasture. Here the dog for the first 
time relaxed his speed, turned about, and stretching his neck, 
ominously, in the direction in which Willard stood, sent forth 
a long, dismal howl. Howl after howl — howl after howl — 
prolonged — 'terrible ! And the boy, putting his fingers to 
his ears, ran with all his speed, till he had left the hill between 
himself and his home. Pause once more, and bethink thee, 
Willard ! Perchance, that far-off howl, dying now in the dis- 
tance, is warning thee of coming evil. Pause, and think ! 

As Willard hurried on, though he passed familiar farm 



WILLARD LAWSON. 73 

houses, bidding adieu to the scenes of boyhood, perhaps for- 
ever, a change gradually came over him ; for the clear, fresh 
air of morning brushed his cheek and cooled his forehead 
giving courage to his heart ; and the brisk motion quickened 
his blood and took some of the pain from his pulse-throbs. 
By degrees his thoughts passed over from the things he was 
leaving, to the future ; and he went on, whistling " A life on 
the ocean wave," and carelessly switching the thistles and 
May-blossoms with the stick which he had^ut for Rover. 

CHAPTER II. A STRANGER. 

Willard had been wandering by the wharf all day, passing 
from one vessel to another, talking with seamen and laying 
plans for the future with apparent boldness ; but, spite of all 
this, there was a desolate feeling at his heart, which was fast 
writing itself in unboyish characters of thought upon his face. 
He still had with him the stick which he brought from Law- 
son farm ; and carried suspended from it a small bundle of 
things which he had taken the forethought to tie up in a 
pocket handkerchief on the morning he left home. This, 
with a very scanty purse, was all he had on earth ; neither 
money, nor goods, nor friends. But he possessed that which 
was worse for" him, unguided as he was, than his wants — a 
bold, impulsive nature, self-confidence and an undoubting 
trust in others, warmth and energy and gayety, and a desire 
to see everything and test everything ; Avhile, just at this 
moment, when he most needed it, a hinge was loosened in his 
strong heart. He wandered alone to a back street, dark, nar- 
row and filthy, for he was taking his first lesson in economy, 
and seated himself on a bench at the door of an alehouse. 
Strange beings were passing by. The drunkard and the 
pauper, the undisguised miserable and the degraded mirthful in 
their misery, the needy beggar and the beggar by profession, 
all went trooping on ; varied only now and then by a face 
which had some tokens of decency in it, to break up the dis- 
gusting monotony. After awhile men began to gather in the 

VOL. u. 7 



■i WILLARD LAWSON. 

alehouse, for night came creeping on. And such men ! Wil- 
lard had never dreamed of their bke before. There were 
oaths and blasphemies, and brutal jests and coarse loud peals 
of laughter, and wrangling, with now and then an expostula- 
tion that had but little gentleness about it ; and as Willard 
listened, he moved uneasily on his bench and looked about 
him with some anxiety, for his prospects for the night were 
anything but agreeable. But should he be coward enough to 
change his quarters ? Willard was but a boy, and boys have 
some super-refmed notions of courage. He stretched him- 
self upon the bench, placing his little bundle under his head. 
He had not been in this position long when his attention was 
attracted by another new-comer. The stranger was tall and 
broad-shouldered — magnificently made ; and as he stept into 
the light beyond the doorway, Willard raised his head and 
looked after him admiringly. Was it some brigand chief, 
some proud and powerful sea-robber, or could it be a mere 
common man like the others there, smoking and drink- 
ing and swearing ? He could not be a good man, for Wil- 
lard knew that this was no place for the good. And yet he 
did not look like one given to vicious habits or evil passions. 
His rich, wavy hair was slightly grizzled, but it had evidently 
been touched by no pencil more objectionable than Time car- 
ries ; his complexion was pale and delicate, quite unlike that 
of a sea-robber ; and his soft blue eye was full of mildness 
and love. He wore a stiff, military-looking coat, buttoned 
closely to the chin, displaying his strong musciilar propor- 
tions to the best advantage, and carried in his hand a heavy 
walking-stick, headed vdtfc silver. Willard could not discover 
in what the stranger's peculiarity either of dress or manner 
consisted, and yet there w is a peculiarity which attracted the 
attention of all the bar-room loungers. He spoke a word or 
two to those nearest him on entering, in a voice of singular 
richness and energy ; and then drawing back a little from the 
company, placed himself upon a settle, just inside the door. 
He was evidently a stranger to the rest of the company as to 
Willard ; and although he seemed disinclined to join in their 



WILLARD LAWSON. 7b 

mirth, his eye wandered from one to another with an inter- 
ested kind of curiosity, which puzzled our young fnend not a 
little. Was there any affinity existing between the spirit of 
the stranger and a scene like this? There was a nobleness iu 
his countenance and a majesty in his air, which belonged t.) 
no common person — an arch-angel fallen, perhaps, for, if 
not fallen, why should he be there among the vicious and 
degraded? Willard Avatched him wonderingly, and as he 
watched, the heads within began to dance together, the nighl- 
lamps joined them, and finally the stars, and at last the boy's 
dull eyes closed entirely, and his chin rosted upon his shin- 
collar. Willard was tired and sleepy that night. How long 
he gave himself up to the dream-spirits he did not know; but 
when he awoke, a voice of singular kindness, close to his ear, 
remarked, " You have slept soundly, my son." 

•' I have had an unusual pillow," returned Willard, smilir-, 
and raising his head from the shoulder where it had rested, 
" I trust I may not have hugged it too long for its owner's 
convenience." 

" That is its owner's care. It was presented unasked, and 
might have been reclaimed at any moment. But, surely," 
added the stranger, in a lower tone, " you are not in the habit 
of resorting to such a place as this ? " 

" I might return the compliment," answered Willard, laug!)- 
ing, " for I take your remark as something of a compliment ; 
I wondered myself to sleep upon the subject." 

" And what did you decide ? " 

" Nothing." 

" I have met with better success in my study. You are a 
stranger." 

"Not quite a companion for men like those? — thank 
vou." 

" You are far from home, for the first time ? " 

" The first time," returned Willard, with a sigh. 

" You have not always been happy in that home ?" 

" There 's no great skill in that — who has ?" 
You left it in anger." 



76 WILLARD LAWSON. 

"Go on, wizard." 

" You know you have taken a false step, and feel much 
regret ; but you are too proud to return." 

" No, no, I am not sorry I have done it. I am not sorry 
— I wouldn't go back for the world !" 

" Rover misses you." 

Willard started, and turned slightly pale. 

*' And your sister Sophy " 

" Ha ! I believe you are the deuce, man." 

" Not quite, my son ; your guess has even less courtesy in 
It than mine, when I dub you runaway." 

" Who and what are you that you should know so much 
of me — know the names of Sophy and Rover ?" 

" I can tell you more — you have a desire to go to sea." 

" Right, but you must have dealings with his black ma- 
j'^stv." 

" And more." Here the stranger took the youth's hand 
affectionately in his, and looked into his face with solemn 
earnestness. " I can tell you more, my son ; and I am no 
magician to discover it. I see it written upon your forehead ; 
I see it beaming in your eye. God has done that for you 
which may make you among men like yonder star among- 
these feeble lamp-lights. He has gifted you with a quick, 
powerful intellect, and a warm, earnest heart ; but that power 
may be degraded and spend itself on trifles ; that warmth may 
be perverted. The gallant craft you are about to launch upon 
the broad ocean of the world, (pardon me, my son,) with tender 
sails and Avarped rudder, is a thing too noble to subject to 
such a risk. If you wsre an older sailor you would make 
better preparations for your voyage. No, I am laying no 
unusual weakness to your charge. I see the fire in your eye ; 
I read strength of purpose on that bold brow, and T know what 
a strong will may enable you to do. But beware, my son ! 
as noble vessels as yours have been wrecked ; as strong minds 
have yielded the jewel of intellect — integrity, .unswerving 
principle ; hearts as true as yours have blackened under the 
finger of pollution. What talisman have you to bear you 



WILLARD LAWSON. 77 

safely through? There was a time, I think — there must 
have been a time when you prayed, ' lead us not into tempta- 
tion ;' and now you are voluntarily walking in the way of it. 
Do I not tell you truth, my son ? " 

" What am I to do?" asked Willard, with a quivering lip. 

" First sit down and tell me all your troubles and your 
plans." 

" You seem to be pretty well informed on that subject 
already." 

" I never saw you, nor heard of you till this evening." 

" How, then, do you know so much about me ?" 

" Your face is just now strangely full of thought — you look 
innocent — you are respectably clad — you carry a bundle on 
your walking-stick — you are in a place given up to the vicious 
— you go to sleep unsuspectingly where any but a stranger 
would feel pretty sure of having his pocket picked — you mur- 
mur names in your sleep — your speech on awaking is intelli- 
gent ; am I a vdzard ? " 

" You are observing." 

" I came here to observe ; and shall be but too happy if I 
can be of service to you." 

" I thank you, but I believe my path is pretty plain before 
me. I have had conversation with a shipmaster to-day, and 
have very nearly enlisted as a sailor. You are very kind ; 
but, notwithstanding your warning, I have a fancy that he 
who cannot preserve purity of mind and morals on the water, 
would scarce do it on the land." 

" Very true, my son. Is it your intention to go out as a 
common sailor ? " 

" Yes, I begin at the bottom of the hill. I have r,o iriends 
to help me to a better berth." 

" Your associates then must necessarily oe men who, if not 
vicious, are ignorant — you \vill have no change of companion- 
ship, nothing to elevate your thoughts and feelins^s — all a 
dark, degraded level about you, and you must be more than 
human not to sink to it. You are young, too, and do not yet 

VOL. II. 7* 



7S WILLARD LAWSON. 

understand your capabilities, because you have not tested 
them. You should be thoroughly educated " 

" J do not like study, sir." 

" Scarce an excuse for a man, my son. If the bird should 
chance not to like the air, we might give it to some little girl 
to enslave, or if the fish should find the water disagreeable, 
we should scarce take the trouble to reason with it — let the 
Ibolish thing die ; but the immortal mind is not a bird or a 
fish, to be granted its whim and perish. The question is not 
what you fancy, but what you need. Nothing worth having 
flies to you and alights upon your hand ; you must seek, dig, 
dig, dig, and the ' hid treasure,' when found, will be worth a 
thousand worlds to you. There is something glorious, too, in 
the labor. You commence in this world a process which is 
to be carried on hereafter under the eyes of angels — which 
is to make the bliss of eternity. Think of the great, undying, 
God-like mind within you, lying all uncultivated, its capaci- 
ties undeveloped, its powers unimproved, its affinity to the 
Deity unrecognized — benefiting no one, influencing no one, 
^ost like rubbish among the things that perish — a chasm in 
the great intellectual unity, a monster of ingratitude to the 
God who endowed it, and a curse to itself. You cannot walk 
through the world as the fool walks, and be happy ; for there 
is that within you which demands your life-long care, and if 
you neglect it — listen to me, my son, believe me, for I have 
seen more years and more men than you have, and I have 
made natures like yours my study — if you neglect it, you 
may almost as well turn at once to yonder bar and find your 
associates there. You cannot satisfy the yearning of the death- 
less spirit for the food it covets, with husks ; it will not be toyed 
with ; and when, starved, enslaved, trampled on, its sharp cry 
comes to your ear, you will drown it as — those men drown it. 
Look ! that one with the scar across the brow, and the fright- 
ful scowl had — has no common mind — you will discover it 
for yourself if you watch his actions and his words. On the 
table yonder, degrading himself lower than any mountebank 



WILLAHD LAWSON. 79 

is one made to love beauty and harmony — a poet by nature, 
a harlequin by prostitution."' 

" You seem to know them well," remarked Willard, throw- 
ing a scrutinizing glance on his monitor. 

" As I know you ; I have never met them before." 

" I had been looking at them before you came in, and I 
thought them either fools or madmen ; there seems to be no 
reason either in their actions or words." 

" They are both ; but not half as mad as you are now to run 
voluntarily into the same danger." 

Willard drew himself up. " I have reason to be highly 
flattered, sir, with your opinion of my strength of character 
and purity of principle." 

The stranger laid his hand soothingly on the shoulders of 
the half-angry youth, which lowered beneath its magnetic 
touch, until he stood smiling beside him as before. " Have 
you more than human strength, my son ? There is an angel 
hovering over your heart I know ; but is there one standing at 
its door with a flaming sword to keep out evil ? Is it chained 
fast that it cannot go into error ? Are you stronger than the 
Son of the Morning, and purer than he, that you cannot fall ? 
Does none of the original sin of our ruined natures cleave to 
you, and have you added nothing thereto ? A Redeemer died 
for you ; but did he make it impossible for you to sin ? or was 
it not this same Holy One who said, ' Watch and pray, lest 
you enter into temptation?' Think of the indignant exclama- 
tion of one as pure-hearted and unsuspecting as you are : 
* "What ! dost thou think thy servant a dog that he should do 
this great thing ? ' And what things did he not do ? What 
crime too black for him afterwards ? There was a time, I 
doubt not, when yonder harlequin would have been indignant 
had his present degradation but been hinted at. But listen to 
him now. That was a beautiful sentiment to drop from such 
,ips — but how distorted — and finished with an oath — hear 
him. There was a time when he was innocent and self-con- 
fident, and I am sure not many years ago. Wait me here 
while I recall those days. If I can but lay my finger on the 



80 WILLARD LAWSON. 

right chord, I may produce a vibration which will call up 
some well-nigh forgotten strain of better days, and do him 
good." 

The stranger stepped to the table, where a light-haired, fair- 
faced, lithe young man was dancing and singing songs, and 
performing various feats of buffoonery for the amusement of 
the boisterous company about him." 

" Henry Crayton, I believe I " 

" Ah ! ' what 's in a name ?' ' Avoid ye ! get thee behind 
nie ! ' ' Do you squinny at me ? ' 

'When the wine-cup is smiling before us. 
And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boys, true, 
Remember j^our part 's to encore us ; 
So here 's for a hulabuloo — loo, loo, loo, 
So here 's for — here 's for — ' 

Where are your voices, boys ? Oh, there is the big shadow 
yet — out with it, man ! " 

" I have a message for you." 

" Then deliver thyself, an' thou art not breathless with the 
weighty matter, my little foot-page. Speak on ; these are all 
our right loyal subjects, and we have no secrets from their 
ears." 

" I had better wait your leisure," replied the stranger, turn- 
ing away. 

" Leisure ! here 's for you, then. I come — I come !" and, 
plunging from the table, young Crayton alighted on his hands, 
turned a somerset, cleared himself of the applauding crowd, 
and joined the tall stranger on the portico. 

" Perhaps I should apologize for interrupting your agreeable 
amusement," Willard heard his new friend remark. 

" Agreeable ! Well, there is laughing and the hours go 
by — yes, it is agreeable. You had an errand." 

" My message was a petition." 

" You had better have presented it then while I was on my 
throne. Ha, ha ! " I 

" It is a solemn one." 



WILLARD LAWSON. 81 

" Well, spcalc, though I have no liking for solemn things," 
answered the half-sobered youth, 

' Let 's laugh and be merry, 
For old Charon's ferry, 

I heg your pardon, speak on." 

"An angel once dwelt in your heart, and he would fain 
come back again. Innocence is the lost one's name — oh, 
take her to your bosom, and with her she will bring a sister 
— Peace." Willard did not hear the reply, but he thought it 
was a scoff, and he wondered if it were possible for him ever 
to become so degraded. The two men still pursued their 
walk up and down the portico, their voices gradually growing 
lower and more earnest, till not a single word could be dis- 
tinguished. At last they parted. The younger walked away 
in the darkness, and the stranger monitor returned to the 
waiting Willard. 

" Poor fellow ! He is very miserable, for he is as sensitive 
concerning his degradation as though it were not his own 
work. He was not sorry to find sympathy and encourage- 
ment, and I have left him with an arrow in his heart which 
he may turn to balm. Heaven help him ! He has promised 
to come to me in the morning for employment. If he should, 
I will do the best I can for him, and I think some friends that 
I have in town would second my endeavors." 

" Do you believe that he will keep his promise ? " 

" It is doubtful. He might reform, but it is hard to retread 
s}3ps of darkness and bitterness ; better commence aright, my 
Bon. ' 

Willard wished himself at home again, and almost thought 
that he would submit to his father's control, (tyranny he named 
it,) in order to avoid the fearful hazard of his present position. 

" I would commence aright," he began, falteringly, " I would 
commence aright — but — 1 cannot go back to Lawson farm. 
There is no one to guide me here, no one to advise me ; what 
shall I do ? " 



82 WILLARD LAWSON. 

" And why not go back, my son ? " 

" I am not happy there — I cannot be. If there were any 
one to talk to me as you do, to awaken me to a consciousness 1 
of my own powers, and teach me to cukivate and improve 
them, I might find pleasure in that ; but I shall go away and 
forget what you have told me, and I cannot do right when I 
am unhappy. No, I never will go back to Lawson farr *' 

" Go with me then, will you not?" 

"Where?" 

" To — to complete your education, to fit yourself for use- 
fulness in the sphere which to-day you may choose ; to-mor- 
row will be lost to you. Go with me, my son, and you never 
will regret this most important decision of your life." 

" How can I go ? I am but one remove from beggary, 
though I decline the profession, in favor of the 'bounding bil- 
low.' Here is my wardrobe in this pocket-handkerchief, and 
here my purse — just eighty-nine cents in it — a weighty cap- 
ital with my expectations ! I have nothing else in the wide 
world." 

" You have a strong hand and a strong intellect. Improve 
well what you have, and I will make the rest easy for you." 

" Who then are you ? " 

The stranger pulled a card from his pocket and put it in 
the hand of the youth, who stepped nearer the light to read it. 
In a moment he returned, his eye moist and his voice tremu- 
lous. 

" I have heard of you. You have been very kind to reason 
so with my waywardness, and I commit myself, without c ues- 
tion, to your guidance; for your voice has reached lo my 
inmost spirit, and roused aspirations which might have slum- 
bered forever." 

" You will go with me, then?" 

" I will. I dare not refuse. It almost seems to me that 
you have been sent here, in this hour of danger, by my dead 
mother." 

" Perhaps ; the spirits that have gone home before do watch 
over us, my son." 



WILLARD LAWSON. 83 

CHAPTEK III. THE ORATOR. 

An immense concourse of the proudest intellects our state 

can boast, had assembled at . There was a hush like 

the pulseless silence of the tomb; for the inspiration of a 
mighty spirit had passed over them ; and each rapt listener 
suspended his breathing, lest even that should drown some 
tone replete with the eloquence of the mighty indwelling 
spirit. The voice of the speaker was one well known in the 
council-hall, one to which senators had listened with rever- 
ence, one which wisdom honored and philanthropy had cause 
to bless. And he now spoke eloquently and feelingly upon a 
subject, which it was evident interested him beyond measure 
— the dispersion of the clouds from the intellectual horizon 
of the human race ; and the full, steady light, flooding every- 
thing in its way, which was spreading itself from zenith to 
nadir. He spoke of the might of mind even in its clay prison ; 
of the man of the wise thought beside the man of the strong 
arm ; of the little voice which comes up from the lone phi- 
losopher's cell to shake the broad earth with its thunders ; and 
of the foolish one, who goes out among his fellows, never 
knowing nor making it known that he carries more than the 
Avealth of an empire in his bosom. He went back to the 
earth's midnight, and plunged into the closet of the alchymist 
and the cell of the monk, where genius wrestled with supersti- 
tion, in the dense darkness, and where knowledge long hid 
her mourning head ; and he brought up from each a libation 
to pour upon the altar of intellectual democracy. He pointed 
to the lone stars that formerly glittered, wonders to gaze at, 
in the wide heaven of literary fame ; and then he suddenly 
unrolled a new firmament, all spangled over with orbs full of 
brilliancy and beauty, but so lost in the universal light as to 
be scarce discoverable. And with what heart-felt eloquence 
he hailed the glorious morning ! Ah ! he must have been 
.standing beneath a sun of his own, to be so enraptured with 
the spirit-warming eflulgence ; for there are those who even 
now see nothing but feeble rush-lights, glimmering in the 



84 WILLARD LAWSON. 

darkness ; who long for the olden time, when but one star 
blazed aloft to light a century, and after its exit the world 
slumbered on, till another came, darting its wild coruscations 
athwart the gloom with startling fitfulness. He was not a 
mere orator, he was an artist, a Pygmalion, and his creations 
breathed — glowed — burned ; his Promethean hand had stolen 
the sacred fire, and he scattered it with a wild profusion, which 
left a spark on every heart — not to kindle passion, but to 
burn away the dross, and leave the godlike spirit unalloyed, 
in unshackled freedom. He ceased, and that vast concourse 
arose and walked away in subdued silence. Each mind, 
how'ever deeply buried in frivolities, flung open its portals to 
thought, and thought is the angel which, once admitted, rec- 
tifies and renovates the whole inner being. 

Among those who listened to the thrilling eloquence of the 
gifted orator Avas a noble-browed, mild-eyed old man, with 
locks of snow, and a face whose expression combined benevo- 
lence with native dignity. His broad chest heaved Avith emo- 
tion while he listened ; and, when the eyes of others kindled 
with enthusiasm, his closed over the warm tears which 
gushed up from a fountain stirred in his bosom only ; for he 
knew that from a little seed which he once held between his 
own fingers, sprang all those sentiments so fraught with life, 
so redolent with wisdom and purity. In a few minutes they 
had grasped hands — the noble old man, and the son of his 
better nature. They met not with outward caressings, but 
with a close clasping of the spirit which is sometimes granted 
on this side of bliss, and a more than womanly gUsh of ten- 
derness quivering in either voice ; for it is a gross wisdom 
which claims not love for its twin. 

Go on, Willard Lawson ! gather thy jewels about thee, as 
tliou art gathering them now ; make thine own setting one of 
unsurpassed glory ; for soon a brow thou lovest will turn from 
earth to be adorned in heaven ; and on that noble brow the 
jewel of thine own bright spirit will glitter. 



Sfi 



A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 

" Whereaway, Jem ? " 

" Up country." 

" Aha ! What 's in the wind ? " 

" A raise." 

" As how ? " 

" Honor bright ? " 

" Honor bright." 

"Fact is, Tom, the New Yorkers are purse-proud — no 
money to be had for love, even. All Avrong — money buys 
love, why not love money ? A'n't I a philosopher, Tom ? " 

" Very good for a beginning." 

"Well, I must practise a little, you see — nothing lilce 
practice ; and no knowing how soon I may be drawn out. 
Country belles, I've heard say, are the deuce-and-all at phi- 
losophy." 

" And who is to have the honor of buying the ninety-ninlh 
part of some hitherto hidden corner of Jem Fletcher's heart, 
(all there is left,) and what's the bid?" 

" No funning, Tom; I'm in sober earnest this time. Thai 
is, what with the billet-doux from trades-people, and the lack 
of them from heiresses, I am getting feeble, very. Pulse low, 
{alias purse,) no rest, (worried by bills a mile long every day,) 
can't sleep o' nights, (for want of a bed,) appetite shockingly 
irregular, (ravenous when somebody else foots the bill,) — 
tell ye what it is, Tom, I'm a case, that's clear. Nothing 
wiU do but change of scene — country air, and country exer- 
cise — the doctors would recommend it, I know. If I don't 
get better, they '11 smother me with duns — I shall be regu- 
larly Burked — chopped into minced meat for the benefit of 
Shears & Co. Sad, isn't it?" 

" Very. Poor Jem Fletcher ! " 

VOL. II. 8 



36 A CASE OF LUN^xoV NOT UNCOMMON. 

" Tho't the sou] of ye would melt a little. But don't quite 
break your heart ; I shall take a dose of the country and come 
out new. The worst of it is, I must serve an apprenticeship, 
and my Laban will outdo his prototype ; he will make me 
spin every thought that is in me into gold threads to match th(» 
yellow-boys in his .eel-skin purse." 

" That will be oppressive." 

" So it will, but I must submit." 

" And for lack of the gold, substitute the labor of gilding, 
eh?" 

" Ah ! you understand, Tom ; you know all about it. A 
fortune in your eye, my boy ! " 

" Something in that way, you know." 

" Ah, yes ! 'waiting for dead men's shoes;' but take my 
word for it, Tom, there 's nothing like this plan o' mine. 
Catch a bird with a piece of money in her mouth', and you 
have birdie and all." 

" Ay, catch the bird." 

"Oh! that's nothing. She's as good as caught, now. 
I 've got a fortieth cousin up there in the woods, (Alderbrook 
they call the settlement,) and he 's a great man among them 
— justice of the peace, town clerk, or something or other. 
Well, I believe he has an inkling of the state of my affairs ; 
and having done pretty well in the matrimonial-money- 
making line himself, he just takes it upon himself to advise 
me. Let me see — I have a mem. somewhere. Deacon — 
Deacon — Palmer, (I believe it is,) — a hundred thousand — 
one pretty daughter, very pretty, and sole heiress — about 
sixteen — bright eyes — dark hair, given to curling — tall — 
hands and feet — (dang it ! not a word about them I all right, 
though, I dare say,) — loves to queen it — a little blue, and 
wilful as Zantippe ! What say to that, eh ! Tom ? " 

" No pulling hair, I hope." 

"Do you think I had better go to the barber, Tom, by way 
of a preventive?" 

" Time enough. You told of an apprenticeship." 

" Oh, ah ! that 's the bitter pill, the drop too much, the great 



A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 87 

Bacrifice that 's to make a martyr of me, Tom. It seems they 
have got an academy of learning up there. (When I ain 
president, I'll have all such ruinous institutions levelled.) 
James Fletcher, A. B., your servant, sir, was graduated at old 
Harvard, and he purposes assuming the duties and responsi- 
bilities of principal of that most excellent institution — the 
academy at Alderbrook, I mean." 

" Capital, Jem ! But no ! Why not dash out, play high 
and take the fortress by glitter? No danger of an indictment 
for swindling." 

"There's a papa in the way, with an eye like a hawk. 
No ; sober and intellectual is my cue — not moneyed, but 
evidently ' a rising young man.' Dang it ! won't I rise ? " 

" If you can. But see ! the steamer is ready for putting 
off. Success to ye, Jem — Good-by.'' 

" Good-by. Better try my prescription, eh ? Think on 't 
— do!" 

Oh ! what a sensation there was in our village, when it 
was reported that James Fletcher, Esq., of New York city, a 
young gentleman of very brilliant parts, and highly-finished 
education, was coming to take charge of our academy I 
There was much sympathy for him, too ; for it was rumored 
that the exigences of the times had deprived him of a very 
fine fortune ; and, moreover, that he came to us for the sake 
of giving his mind the opportunity to recover its usual tone 
and vigor, after having been nearly shattered by adversity. 
Mr. Fletcher arrived late of a Saturday evening ; but in the 
ten minutes that elapsed before he disappeared in one of the 
upper chambers of the " Sheaf and Sickle," he had been seen 
by half the men of the village. The next morning there was 
a great rush to church, which must have been anticipated by 
the parson ; for the elder part of the congregation did not fail 
to observe that he had taken unwonted pains with his dis- 
course. Adeline Palmer called at our door, and, as we 
walked to church together, I had a full description of Mr. 
Fletcher — eyes, hair, complexion, bearing, character, and 
even feelings. The picture was rather " taking," I must 



SS A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. ' 

own ; but my muslia and straw were " as good as new, 
then ; so I only readjusted the precious morsel of paste glit- 
tering in my breast-knot, and carried my parasol as daintily 
as possible. But it was of no use. Ada Palmer was the 
belle of Alderbrook ; and, though it is impossible, in any case, 
to resist the desire to look one's prettiest, the vainest of us 
never dreamed of being seen when beside her. Worse still, I 
was informed that Mr. Fletcher was particularly anxious to 
board at Deacon Palmer's, for the reason that his love of 
retirement and quiet might be better gratified there than at 
any other house in the village. 

" And will he ? " I inquired, with quite enough interest. 

" If we can get papa to consent." 

" To think of your having a boarder ! " 

" You pity us, I dare say, Fan," whispered Ada, Avith a 
very roguish tAvinkle of the eye, and a knowing look about the 
corners of the mouth, that was particularly provoking. 

" Rather impertinent, Miss Deacon's daughter," thought I , 
" I shall treasure that up to measure back to you one of these 
days ;" but there was no chance to reply, for we had entered 
the church porch ; and so, with a mutual smile, and a nod of 
good-natured defiance, we parted. I soon discovered Mr. 
Fletcher, for his was the only strange face there ; and he 
evidently soon discovered Ada Palmer. Oh ! Ada was a lit- 
tle queen, and she never looked so beautiful as on that day. 
It was impossible not to concede to her her winnings ; and 
when, in a fortnight after, Mr. Fletcher was reckoned unfail- 
ingly among them, I do not believe there was a belle in the 
whole village but thought it was her due, and yielded the 
conquest to her with a good grace. But we did have rare 
times, making Ada blush, and (did you ever observe that 
awkward right-angle which bashful consciousness puts in the 
corner where the two lips meet ?) make square mouths. Rare 
times had we ; and it was as good revenge as need be. 

But poor Jem Fletcher I he was right when he anticipated 
a severe apprenticeship, for the deacon was " a marvel of a 
good man." Deacon Palmer's right hand, holding his purse 



A C^SE OP LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. S9 

within it, was given to every good enterprise, whether for the 
advancemen'; of religion and morality, or intended to promote 
the secondary interests of the village which acknowledged him 
its head. So poor Jem was not only obliged to attend church 
three times every Sabbath, and lectures of various kinds dar- 
ing the week, but he must needs listen, with at least pretended 
int.vest, to a thousand plans for ameliorating the condition of 
the human race ; from which weighty matters, he hoped, as 
he listened, at some future day to relieve his intended father- 
in-law, by taking the helm into his own hand. The more 
Jem saw of the old gentleman's generosity, the more sanguine 
became his hopes ; and bright was the picture his fancy 
painted, of the time Avhen good Deacon Palmer would no 
longer be obliged to look after wealth which he did not know 
how to use. But Jem's hardest apprenticeship was not to 
Laban — it was to Rachel herself. Oh ! such a sprite as was 
Ada Palmer ! Proud as Juno, and mischievous as a whole 
troop of those small people they call fairies, headed by bright 
Titania's own jester. An 

" Airy, fairy Lilian, 
Flitting, fairy Lilian" 

was she, with the same " crimson-threaded lips," and the " silver 
trebled laughter" on them ; but as dignified as a lady duchess, 
when she chose. Oh ! there was no bringing Ada to terms 
till she was ready to come ; and sometimes I used to doubt 
whether Jem Fletcher, though he trained his eyes, and trained 
his tongue, and tuned his voice to the tone of a harp with a 
die-away air on its strings, would be able to accomplish it. 
Ada was un-read-able, even by us. Jem, however, hoped on, 
and with good reason, for it was evident that he had the right 
ear of both parents. 

There was to be a meeting of the •' Alderbrook "Young 
Ladies' Temperance Society," and Mr. Fletcher was unani- 
mously declared " the very one " to deliver a fitting lecture on 
the occasion. Jem Fletcher lecture on temperance ! But no 
matter; he had embarked, and must push forward at all 

VOL. 11. 8* 



90 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 

hazards. Besides, what better opportunity could a lover wish 
for the display of his eloquence ? Wliat delicate compliments 
might he pay to one under cover of the whole ! How charm- 
ingly would he angelize all the fair teens at Alderbrook, while 
Ada would be thinking within herself, " if he holds all of us 
in such high estimation, what would his idolatry be when 
concentrated ? " Mr. Fletcher delighted the ladies by consent- 
ing to address them ; but, in the mean time, he begged a week's 
delay, as he would not presume to rise before such an assem- 
bly of wit, and beauty, and talent, without due preparation. 
The delay was granted, and poor Jem Fletcher sat down 
determinedly and perseveringly to his severe task. Such 
havoc as was made among the goose quills and foolscap ! 
Jem's organ of destructiveness had never accomplished so 
much since the days of his babyhood, when newspapers had 
been given him as playthings. But he succeeded. Even his 
own fastidious taste was fully satisfied. And what might not 
be expected of those bright beings on the look-out for beauties ? 
Jem was in raptures. He read, and re-read his address ; and 
each time it grew more strikingly brilliant, more witty, more 
sweefly sentimental, more gracefully insinuating — in short, 
more decidedly the precise thing to bait the hook dropped 
through a Jady's ear into her heart. We all expected won- 
ders of Mr. Fletcher ; and curiosity, pushed back like a bois- 
terous beggar ti]\ the latest moment, was ready for a rush. 

" Ada, go up to Mr. Fletcher's room and get the newspaper," 
said the deaccon, after the young lady had donned bonnet and 
shawl to go to .the lecture. 

Ada seized m;y hand. " Come with me, Fan ; Mr. Fletcher 
is down taking tea with mamma. He stayed out late to-night 
— conning his ^speech, I dare say," she added, in a whisper. 

The deacon ^rang for lights, and away went Ada and I for 
the newspaper. Mr. Fletcher's hat, with his gloves beside it, 
was upon the ;table ; and upon a folded handkerchief, like the 
driven snow /m whiteness, lay a little manuscript book. 

" Lock ! \he lecture, Fanny!" said Ada, taking one cor- 
ner between the tips of her fingers, and elevating it above 



A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 91 

her head. " Now what would you give to see the inside 
of it?" 

" A bound to the top of the staircase ; I never could bear 
to read a manuscript. But what a very 7iice man this Mr. 
Fletcher of yours must be ! See how carefully that bit of 
blue riband is knotted." 

" The very same that he stole from my work-basket this 
morning ! Saucy, is n't it ? I have half a mind to punish 
that impudence. Besides, (between our two selves, Fan,) 
this very correct Mr. Fletcher is an arrant hypocrite — I see 
it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He would be far more 
at home, I dare say, singing — 

'Blame not the bowl — the fruitful bowl,' 

than saying pretty things for the edification of us cold-watcr- 
ites. Let 's punish his knavery. Here, come to the window 
while I untie this knot." 

Ada Palmer's fingers shook as though shocked at their own 
naughty doings, while she loosened the blue riband ; and then 
she slipped the inner sheet from it, and slid it down behind 
the sofa. 

" Now, if I only had some queer thing to substitute. Look ! 
there 's a sheet of note-paper on the table ! He has just Avrit- 
ten down a page, and the ink is hardly dry on it. Bring it, 
Fanny — it is just the size of this — some love-note, I dare 
say ; and we shall get a blush from him, at any rate, when he 
opens to it. Think of making him blush in public ! but we 
must be very demure — it would not do for us to smile even, 
or we should be detected." 

By the time Ada had finished her caution, the sheet of 
note-paper was fastened snugly in the middle, and the book 
returned to its resting-place on the handkerchief. 

A more mellow, rich-toned voice, than Jem Fletcher's, I 
never heard ; and, on that evening, it was modulated to its 
utmost capacity for melody. I had entirely forgotten Ada's 
mischievous prank, and so had she, I doubt not, before he had 
turned over three leaves. The sentiments, too, and the happy 



92 A CASE OF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 

mode of adorning them ! Oh ! Jem Fletcher deserved success 
for his industry, if not for his honesty ! Suddenly, while 
Fletcher's tongue was thrilling beneath a whole tide of elo- 
quence, and hearts were beating, and eyes flashing before him, 
he made an abrupt pause. Placing his right hand upon the 
page, he raised the other to his eyes hastily, as though brush- 
ing away some intruding vision — but no, it was there yet. 
Jem tried his handkerchief, but it did no good. Something 
had evidently planted itself before him that he did not wish 
to see. He turned over leaf after leaf confusedly, and back 
again, while the red blood seemed ready to burst from his 
forehead, and we could almost fancy that we saw his hair 
raising itself in consternation above. 

" I did not mean to embarrass him so much," whispered 
Ada in my ear. 

At that moment, Fletcher's" eye fell upon us, and such an 
eye ! Mortification, distress, anger — everything painful was 
there ; and no doubt our blazing faces, with the attempt at a 
smile, which we both of us instinctively made, betrayed the 
whole. Fletcher gave but one glance at us, one at the curious 
audience, now in a buzz of wonder; and, snatching his hat 
from the seat behind him, he bounded for the door. The con- 
gregation was astounded ; and poor Ada and I trembled like 
two leaves in a storm. Slowly, and one by one, the people 
went out ; and that night a light was kept burning in every 
house for fear of the mad tutor. 

" Do you know what was the matter with Mr. Fletcher last 
evening ? " inquired Deacon Palmer of his daughter, while at 
the breakfast-table. Ada's face took on the hue of a full- 
blown peony. " Then you have seen this before ? " and the 
deacon pulled from his pocket the little book tied with the 
blue riband. 

" I am sorry, papa ; indeed, I am very sorry. I did not 
intend to mortify Mr. Fletcher so much — I only slipped in 
that paper for a frolic ;" and poor Ada actually burst into 
tears. 

*' Then you have not read it ? " 



A CASE CF LUNACY NOT UNCOMMON. 93 

" Oh, no, papa ! you could not think I would be so mean ? " 

" Well, Mr. Fletcher thought you had. I found this by 
the church-door, where he dropped it. If you do not know 
what paper you slipped in for a frolic, you may read it now." 

Ada's eyes grew larger and larger as she perused the precious 
document which had turned Jem Fletcher into a madman ; 
and such a volley of laughter as she closed it with, had never 
before burst even from her merry heart. 

No wonder that poor Jem was mortified past redemption ; 
for the note, which he supposed Ada had perused, gave a full 
account of his plans and prospects to his friend Tom ; and 
closed with a characteristic eulogium on pretty damsels in 
general, and moneyed pretty ones in particular. 

Jem Fletcher has never been heard of since at Alderbrook 
and many a good lady, to this day, often expresses the hope, 
that the poor dear young man has found shelter in some 
unatic asylum. 



94 



THE GREAT MARCH HOLIDAY. 

The boisterous, bustling, blowing, chilling month of March 
Ugh ! it makes me shiver to think of it ! Even its smiles are 
undesirable — mud-producers as they are. But yet it brings, 
like every other part of the year, its own peculiar pleasures. 
It is, indeed, a season of the utmost interest and importance to 
a large class, quite as likely to supply us with future states- 
men as college walls or city boundaries. It is strange how 
much, and yet how little, we are indebted to position and edu- 
cation for what we afterward become. The pale student, with 
his classic face, soul-beaming eye, and graceful step, bows 
himself from our presence on commencement day ; while our 
hopes and good wishes follow him on what we believe will 
be a bright career ; and we never hear of him again. The 
awkward, square-shouldered country lad comes trudging into 
town with his grain, perhaps, and at evening slips away to the 
.ecture-room. We observe neither his coming nor his going, 
but if we did we could scarce see the strong intellect burst- 
ing its rough kernel. Years pass, and suddenly a great 
man rises before us — a kind of intellectual miracle. The dis- 
trict school was the nursery of this intellect ; a country news- 
paper lent its aid to foster it; books, old dry books, that those 
acquainted with modern literature would never think of read- 
ing, hedged it round v/ith common sense ; occasional visiters 
and occasional visits added to the fund of information which 
the newspaper supplied ; thought, driven to feed upon itself 
for want of other food, wrought itself into a giant ; and so the 
wonder grew. 

So the district school is a very important thing ; and hence 
we are not disposed to undervalue the holyday at its close — • 



THE GREAT MARCH UOLYDAY. 95 

a great and important day, not to be surpassed by Fourth-of- 
July independence or Christmas feasting and frolic. The 
:losc of the winter school is very much like the breaking up 
Df a half-tamed menagerie. As some of the more loving sort 
of animals linger around their keeper, for old affection's sake, 
10 Lucy or Tommy hang, finger in mouth, upon the door- 
atch, or creep, pussy-like, near the desk, half-ashamed, yet 
oat.h to go without the farewell smile. Others stand undis- 
iturbed and unmoved, like sturdy bruin or Moses Meecham ; 
Ic a few of the wildest, including the whole catalogue of 
ipes, enter upon some mischievous prank, as Zeke Brown re- 
moves the door-step, or Fred Lightbody purloins the schocl- 
nastcr's spectacles, and kindly adjusts his wig on one side of 
lis head. But by far the greater part of these freed prisoners 
[from both menageries) scamper as though for dear life ; and 
scarce knowing whether their feet are in the air or on the 
rround, give such an idea of Babel as your imagination never 
onjuredup. Oh, those are very desperate hopefuls that in 
March break from the bondage of the district school ! 

I once had the pleasure of spending a Avinter where sleigh- 
ides and apple-bees, and spelling schools and grammar schools, 
;onstituted a very delightful complement of the useful and or- 
lamental, and made the weeks and months go by with the 
•apidity of a season in town, with the advantage of coming 
"rom the %vinter's dissipation with added freshness and vigor. 
Dur school-house was a little square box of a thing, tucked 
lown at one corner of a piece of woodland — not for the ad- 
'^antage of shade — oh no ! All the trees that would be likely 
o keep off the broiling sun in summer, or in winter prevent 
he snow from drifting eave-high before the door, were care- 
ully cut do^\^l and cleared away. It must be owned that this 
vas not the best situation for the school-house, but Squire 
^ones wanted it in the eastern part of the district, and Doctor 
liVTiite was determined that it should be in the western ; so, 
settle the difficulty, the puzzled managers, who were ex- 
>ecting nearly all the funds from these two titled personages, 
iecided on what they considered a central position, measuring 



96 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 

off equal distances from each hearth-stone. The result was, ' 
both great men were offended, and refused to relax their in- 
sulted purse strings. But the school-house was built at last 
— a little " teenty taunty " nut-shell of a " concarn," the roof 
making a rather steep inclined plane from ridge-pole to eaves,- 
which latter just overtopped an ample row of good-sized, well- 
glazed windows. People seem to have discovered an intimate 
connexion between physical and intellectual light, imagining 
probably that there is some kind of a filter in the brain, by 
which the eye-blinding stream is converted into a yet more 
subtle fluid — the inner light, that it is shockingly transcen- 
dental to furnish with a name. Our school-house, which was 
fifteen feet square, was furnished with eleven full-grown win- 
dows ; from some one of which a pane of glass was alwaj^s 
broken, and its place supplied by hat or shawl. Between two 
of these windows was the mouth of the little den, and, all around 
it, the walls were ornamented Avith carved work, displaying the 
artistic developments of many a youthful master of the jack- 
knife. 

You must not imagine that none but very small children 
attend the district school; for the winter brings together a 
motley assemblage of all ages, from the sturdy little chap in 
his linsey-woolsey and checked apron, to the merry maiden 
of sixteen, who decorates the parlor of a Sunday evening for 
the reception of a lover, and the comely youth whose strong 
arm in summer guides the plough and swings the scythe. It 
is a happy place, that district school ; overflowing Avith the 
genuine cream of fun ; gay, busy, mischief-hatching, and 
gloriously mischief-executing. A very happy place is it ; and 
I cannot imagine what creates the undefinable longing for the 
" last day," which seems to be the prevalent feeling among 
the young tyros, any more than I can imagine why, in our 
highest state of happiness, we are ever looking forward to the 
morrow. Whatever may be the reason, the arrival of the 
" last day " is carefully watched for ; and, despite the old 
adage, it comes at last ; while, with smoothed aprons and 
cleaned faces, and ah bedecked in holyday finery, the future 



THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 97 

Statesmen and (provided success attend some of the reformers 
of the present day) stateswomen, sally forth to the place of 
action. 

I have hitherto neglected to describe the interior of the 
Maple Bush school-house ; but while the young belles are 
peeping at each other over the tops of their books to see which 
ib best dressed, the beaux penning their last doggerels, and 
the younger lads and lasses alternately sitting bolt upright, 
toes to the crack and arms twisted on tlie breast, like a Hol- 
land dough-nut, and lolling half over to the floor in forgetful 
laziness, we may get time for a glance. 

Yet, now that I think again, you will not need a descrip- 
tion, for I am on an old theme ; and the ranges of seats, the 
schoolmaster's throne, with its "might-makes-right" corner, 
appropriated to crumbled ginger-bread, half-eaten apples, bro- 
ken jack-knives, strings, whip-lashes, tops, and spring-colored 
love-letters, the pine floor which is scrubbed twice a year, the 
evergi-eens, the ferule, and the rod are no new things to you, 
particularly if you have ever happened to meet with " The 
District School as it Was." One thing, however, has been 
changed since those days. The old-fashioned fire-place, 
which formerly yawned on one side beneath the stick chim- 
ney, has within the last dozen years been superseded by a 
rusty, smoking stove, on the top of which the children roast 
the apples and cheese for their dessert. You would wonder, 
if you were acquainted in the Maple Bush district, how such 
an innovation was ever admitted into a place where all are 
such sticklers for ancient customs. It was done, as most 
things are in this world, whether good or bad, from a spirit 
of opposition. Nobody had a stove, or dreamed of having 
one, until an old man of our vicinity, who had been paying a 
visit in town,- happened to get into a rage one day about 
"these new-fangled notions for picking honest folks' pockets." 
Then, as in duty bound, to prevent a man's storming for 
naught, and wasting his eloquence on the empty air, there 
rose up a number of his neighbors to oppose, and thereby (est. 
his opinions. It became, therefore, absolutely necessary for 

VOL. II. 9 



yS THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 

every man of the stove party to be in possession of the article 
in question ; and so absolutely did these men bear sway, that 
at last the offensive stove found its way even to the very 
school-house. Never was there a greater warfare about old 
and new measures than was carried on in this case ; but the 
stove men had strong limbs and powerful voices, and, above 
all, their chief speakers had, if not full purses, full granaries ; 
so they came off victorious. The result was, the anti-stoveitea 
gave due notice that they should withdraw their patronage 
from the school; kept their word; and, in process of time, 
removed to some more congenial neighborhood, where, if they 
were obliged to look now and then upon a stove, nobody would 
know that the sight was at all offensive. 

Well do I remember my last day at the Maple Bush school. 
The grand event had been anticipated for a long time previous; 
and, for a whole month, scarce anything had been tallced of but 
the last day, and what would be fitting and proper for it. We 
had conned the spelling-book, grammar, and geography, till the 
contents of our juvenile works were at our tongues' ends, and 
could be rattled off as a pedler rattles over his assortment of 
" pins, needles, scissors, thimbles, gloves, silks, laces, black 
ladies' hose, shoe-strings," &c., &c. Not that we pretended 
to know the meaning of the words which rolled over our pout- 
ing lips so glibly : we had never dreamed that loritten words 
tvere " signs of ideas." A class of young mathematicians had 
managed, without the aid of the now essential black-board, to 
sliow a passable acquaintance with DaboU's Rules; (rules, by 
the way, not intended to explain the after process, but set up 
to be explained when practice had made their meaning dedu- 
oible ;) the " first class" had read for the twentieth time, "Ad- 
ilress to the Young," and " Oh, solitude, romantic maid ! " 
from the English Reader; and the principal spelling-class 
nad practised on " Michilimackinac," " phthysic," and the 
changes of " ail-to-be-troubled-table," until quite out of breath. 
But Jack Winslow and Peter Quim ! ah, they were the boast 
of the school, and to their histrionic powers the proud heart 
of Mr. Linkum owed its highest swellings. Nothing could 



THE GREAT MAKCII HOLYDAY. 99 

equal the grace wilh which they flourished hands and feet, or 
the grenadier style of their strut, as they paraded up and down 
the little corner which had been allotted to their scenic per- 
formances. To be sure it was a very small corner, but then 
it required fewer blankets to partition it off, and much less 
time and talent to decorate it with proper scenery. Never 
was a school better prepared for the final ordeal ; and never 
was a teacher better satisfied with the success of his drilling 
than our honored Mr. Linkum. 

Fond of mental display as we were, it is not to be expected 
that we should neglect every other kind ; and, for more than 
a week, we had employed every leisure moment in decorating 
the walls with evergreens, consulting with each other how our 
simple furniture should be arranged, and practising bows and 
courtesies. Anxiously had we Avatched the clouds for many 
days, fearful of a March storm; but with what joyous heart- 
boundings did we hail the morning of our gala-day. The air 
had that rich, pleasing softness, which, although it makes the 
earth seem about to melt away beneath our feet, we welcome 
so gratefully, loving to feel its delicious kiss on cheek and 
forehead. Here and there the snow had melted off, exposing 
little patches of faded green, where nestled the spicy blossoms 
of the trailing arbutis, amid piles of withered leaves, blown 
together by the winds of the preceding autumn. Then, on 
one knoll peculiarly favored by the sun, the little pink-eyed 
claylonias had actually congregated in tribes, and amid the 
moss in the centre — no, I was not mistaken — the hcpaticu 
itself! That snowy white, variegated by the faintest tints of 
pink, and blue, and purple, was more familiar than the alpha, 
bet ; for it was in that fragrant alphabet that I had taken my 
first life-lesson. Oh, that bright, rich March morning ! 
Gladness was in the sky, and on the air, and upspringing 
from the earth. And those were light hearts, indeed, which 
came out to welcome it. 

The sun had crept up the sky but a little way before we 
were congregated about the door of the school-house at the 
corner of the woods ; and the commingling of merry voices, 



100 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 

if not quite as musical as that of the summer birds, was cer 
tainly as glad. And what was the source of all this gladness? 
We loved dearly to be together, loved our good Mr. Linkum, 
loved our sports, and some of us loved our books — and we 
had come together for the purpose of parting. How could we 
be .glad? Oh, a bright day was before us, and it was quite 
too early to begin to grieve. Surely children, with their de- \ 
tcrmined joyousness, in the face of shadows, and tears, and 
death itself, are the true philosophers of this world. A kind 
Providence has so mingled our cup that the sweet is always j 
beside the bitter ; the wise man sips at the bitter, and mur- 1 
murs constantly ; the child drinks down the sweet, and never ' 
looks at the other. 

The " last day" passed pleasantly with us all. Fathers and 
mothers, older sisters and brothers, fond, chuckling grand- 
papas, and aunties still more fond, came crowding in, and 
listened with rapt attention to the doings of the youthful 
prodigies. Then two grave gentlemen rose slowly from their 
seats and made some flattering remarks; suggesting, however, 
as ballast for their praise, that the girls might have read a little 
louder, and the boys a little slower, and that by the- copy-books 
they had discovered a prevailing propensity for crooked-backed 
t's, and finger-prints done in ink. This accomplished, the 
company retired, and then the grand treasure was unlocked. 
Did you ever, dear reader, did you ever stand on the tip-toe 
of expectation, the blood tingling in your veins away down tc 
the tips of your fingers, and your eyes sparkling with the 
briramings of a heart crowded with pleasure, while the blue, 
and red, and green, and yellow treasures were scattered 
among your companions ? Then, when your own turn came 
and the bow and " thank you, sir," were given with shame^ 
faced exultation, and you had lifted the cover and found pre- 
cisely the thing you were hoping for ! " Little Red Riding 
Hood," perhaps; or maybe the " Children in the "Wood," al 
dons in the quaintest of rhymes, with the quaintest of cuts tt 
illustrate them — ah ! do you recollect that day ? and do jox 
ever expect or wish to be happier ? 



THE GllEAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 101 

In addition to the gifts usually made on such occasions, it 
had been the practice of teachers at the Maple Bush to award 
a prize to the pupil who had made the greatest proficiency. 
This plan is doubtless ill-judged, being productive of many 
evil consequences ; but it was formerly extensively practised, 
and may be none the less so now. The result of the harmful 
spirit of rivalry thus excited, is usually a period of contention, 
and finally a settled dislike, which strengthens into hatred, for 
the successful candidate. This hatred is often too deeply 
rooted to yield to the influence of time ; and with some it 
mingles as a bitter ingredient in the cup of their after life. 
It was not, however, so at the Maple Bush ; though justice 
and equity had but little to do Avith keeping off the evil. We 
very well understood (no disrespect to our half-year monarch, 
whose taste and judgment cannot be too highly commended) 
that the prize was not awarded to literary merit — for some- 
how the. good schoolmaster, by a process of reasoning un- 
known to some of us then, though we are all wiser now, con- 
trived to have some favorite bear away the prize. I say the 
process was unknown to us then; for we had not learned how 
strangely a pretty face (or even a face that is not pretty, if one 
can only Imagine it is) distorts the mental vision, and invests 
those favored with our partiality with all the qualities we wish 
them to possess. 

Dolly Foster, a dark-eyed, roguish-lipped, merry-hearted 
specimen of bright sixteen, with more mischief in her than 
erudition, and more of kindness than either, had so often won 
the prize at the hands of admiring schoolmasters, that it had 
become quite a matter of course ; and certainly no one had 
reason to suspect a failure on the part of the belle of the Maple 
Bush this season. 

" I wonder what the prize will be — somethhig nice, of 
course." 

"Ah, catch Mr. Linkum giving anything not nice — eh, 
Dolly?" 

And then Dolly would blush; and then such a shout! 
Laughing is healthful ; and I have no doubt but the founda- 

VOL. II. 9* 



102 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 

tion for manj a good constitution was laid in that school-house 
at the Maple Bush. 

The winks and inuendoes by which pretty Dolly Foster 
was so nearly demolished, were not altogethei the result of a 
love of teasing. There was something to tease "little cherry- 
cheeks" for. Every girl and every boy in our school remem- 
bered how, on one occasion, a whole party of disobedient sliders 
had been most unexpectedly forgiven; and when, in a state 
of pleased wonderment, they looked about them isr the. cause, 
there stood Miss Dolly, the foremost of the transgressor^, close 
by the soft-hearted Mr. Linkum, looking up, oh so pleadingly ! 
and he, the drollest combination of would-be severity and em- 
barrassed relenting that ever was seen. The little community 
said nothing ; but there was an instantaneous illuniination of 
countenance, as though an idea worth having had flashed in 
upon them ; and henceforth Miss Dolly became a sort of scape- 
goat for the whole. 

Then, on another occasion — ah! Dolly had dared too 
much then ; it was an act of downright disobedience, and 
could not be tolerated. She took her stand beside the mas- 
ter's desk with a kind of abashed sauciness ; confident, yet 
timid ; evidently a little sorry that there was quite so much 
roguery nestled in the curve of that pretty h'p of hers, or 
that being there it could not keep its niche without creep- 
ing down to the naughty little fingers, and at the same 
time pleased with the opportunity of testing her power. At 
first she called to her aid her ever-ready wit, and endeavored 
to turn the whole affair into ridicule ; then she pouted, trotted 
her little foot in anger, and looked sulky ; but Mr. Linkum, 
though evidently distressed, was not to be thus baffled. My 
readers must remember that some dozen years ago, " govern- 
ment by moral suasion" was not so fashionable as at the pres- 
ent day ; and no age or sex was exempt from birchen-rod or 
cherry ferule. Dolly could go a little further than anybody else ; 
but there were bounds even to her liberty, or the dignity of 
the schoolmaster would be sadly compromised. Dolly must 
be punished, that was certain — and neither laughing nor 



THE GRfcAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 103 

pouting could save her. The poor schoolmaster, the greater 
sufferer by far, was not the only one in the room who would 
have taken a hundred blows to save her pretty hand one ; and, 
as we saw him eyeing his huge ferule with evidently murder- 
ous intent, a strange silence reigned throughout the circle. 
Even the girls, after slightly fluttering the leaves of their 
^books, and shuffling their feet carelessly, as much as to say, 
" Who cares ? What better is her slim little contrivance of a 
hand than ours ? " seemed to partake of the general intercs't. 
Mr. Linkum eyed the ferule sternly — a kind of desperate 
sternness like that the timid sheriff feels when he adjusts the 
fatal knot ; then seized it resolutely, and petrified us all by the 
low, terrible words — " Give me your hand !" All were petri- 
fied but Dolly herself; she, poor child, was meekly, hopelessly 
heart-broken. Timidly the pretty hand was extended; but 
there was a heart-throb in every dear little finger, which poor 
'At. Linkum niust have been insane to think of withstanding 
Oh, there is a witchery in a hand, in some hands ; and the 
soft, beseeching touch of Dolly's, all quivering as it was with 
agitation, went (I cannot say precisely how, but doubtless 
Neurologists might tell) to Mr. Linkum's heart. He sudden- 
ly turned very red, as though that delicate touch had pressed 
all the blood from his heart ; then very pale, as though it had 
called home the crimson tide and buried it there — and the 
hand clasping the raised ferule dropped helplessly by his side. 
Sweet little Dolly (her head had been drooping on her bosom 
for the last half minute) raised her soft blue eyes pleadingly to 
the master's face, and the next moment they overflowed — 
the big tear-drops gushed from their sunny fountain and fell 
in a sudden shower upon her own hand and His. Poor Mr. 
Linkum ! what a savage he felt himself ! It was too, too 
much. 

The poor fellow turned suddenly to his desk — Dolly, among 
the dozen seats which were offered her, sought the nearest 
and hid her burning face in a neighbor's apron, while a sim- 
ultaneous titter went around the room ; and there was a gen- 
eral tossing of pretty heads and ominous shakes of would-be; 



104 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. , 

wise ones. Fred Lightbody (but then Fred was a wag, and 
was seldom more than half believed) asserted that when Mr 
Linkum turned from the desk, where he stood for several min- 
utes intenlly examining a book which chanced to be open at a 
blank page, his eye had a singular dewiness about it, and we 
all observed a tremulous faltering in his voice when he ordered 
us to our books. We remarked, too, that he did not look at 
Dolly again that day — and that unusual flashes of red spread 
now and then across his face, as though his anger were quite 
uncontrollable. 

That was the last time Dolly Foster ever transgressed. 
She was just as mischievous, just as full of fun and frolicking 
as ever; and at the spelling-schools, singing-schools and 
apple-bees, she played off a thousand pranks on wise, sober 
Mr. Linkum — but in the day school pretty Dolly was as 
demure as a kitten. 

All these things were called to memory on the mormng of 
the " last day ;" and who of us could doubt but Dolly Foster 
would receive the prize ? She had won it before, when there 
were not half as many indications of partiality. 

'* I wonder what the prize will be ? " 

The same wonder had been expressed a hundred times that 
winter. 

" Something handsome, of course." 

" Oh yes, of course." And then a merry burst of laughter 
went the rounds. 

" What can make Dolly Foster so late ? " 

" What can make Dolly Foster so late ? " was echoed and 
reechoed, as the hour of nine drew near. We knowing ones 
were of the opinion that she was detained by some toilet diffi- 
culties ; that her beautiful hair had taken a fancy just now, 
when it should have been most pliable, not to curl, or that the 
mantuamaker had ruined her dress. But these were trifles 
to Dolly Foster, and we were confident that they would not 
keep her away from school. What, then, was our disappoint- 
ment, our consternation, nay, our vexation, (people are always 
vexed when they guess vn-ong,) when not only on the morn- 



THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 105 

ing but afternoon of the last day, it was found that Miss Dolly 
had absented herself. It was perfectly unaccountable. She 
was not ill, for she had been seen flying from one part of the 
spacious farm-house to another, by those who had passed 
there, as blithe and happy as a bee ; and when her brother 
Dick was questioned about the matter, he laughed and looked 
at the master, while the master blushed and looked out of the 
window. 

As I have said before, the last day passed off finely, except 
that Mr. Linkum made some mistakes, such as calling Fred 
Lightbody Dolly — and when he was asked the time, saying 
eight o'clock instead of three. And, as I have not said before, 
the prize was this time really a reward for application. It 
was won by Abraham Nelson, the great awkward but perse- 
veringly studious son of Nelson, the day-laborer ; and Abra- 
ham Nelson was persecuted forever after. It was not strange. 
Vanity is undoubtedly everywhere the same reprehensible 
thing ; but the vanity of a pretty girl has something rather 
fascinating in it, while that of a great lubberly boy is unen- 
durable. Abraham Nelson's vanity took on the most disa- 
greeable form, and so both parties were sufTerers. 

Mr. Linkum was a general favorite, notwithstanding his 
partiality in a particular case, and I believe the " big boys " 
of our school (that is, all the hopefuls between fourteen and 
twenty-one) never felt more inclined to be sadly serious than 
as the hour of four drew near on that long-expected, long- 
desired March holyday. They gathered around the master 
— each one dreading to give the good-bye shake of the hand 
— and I remember that for one I felt exceedingl}'- vexed by 
his seeming indifference. He was evidently embarrassed , he • 
half wished to appear serious, as became the dignity of his 
station ; and yet there was a look of mirthful exultation sur- 
mounting all, which made the expression of his face irresisti- 
bly comical. He saw that all were imbibing his spirit, and 
finally he broke away from the circle with a " Never mind, 
boys, we will have fine times yet ;" and jumping upon a pass- 
ing sleigh, he was carried out of sight. Mr. Linkum did not 
promise without cause. 



106 THE GREAT MARCH HOLYDAY. 

There was a wedding at the Maple Bush that evening — a , 
quiet, cozy, family affair ; and the pretty belle of the district, 
though quite as pretty and quite as mischievously attractive, 
was a belle no longer. Bright, witching Dolly Foster ! what 
a dear little neighborhood blessing she had always been, with 
her sunny face and sunny heart and open hand ! And what 
a charming little bride of a Madam Linkum she made ! How 
everybody loved her ! How the old ladies praised her docility 
and teachableness ! and how the young ladies doted on 
her as a model of taste and socialness ! Oh, Dolly Foster 
was the flower of the Maple Bush; but bewitching Mrs. 
Linkum was its gem — its lamp — its star. 



107 



NOT A POET. 

I AM a little maiden, 

Who fain would touch the lyre 
But my poor fingers ever 

Bring discord from the wire. 
'T is strange I 'm not a poet ; 

There 's music in my heart ; 
Some mystery must linger 

About this magic art. 

I 'm told that joyous spirits, 

Untouched by grief or care, 
In mystery so holy 

Are all too light to share. 
My heart is, very gladsome ; 

But there 's a corner deep, 
Where many a shadow nestles, 

And future sorrows sleep. 

I hope they 'II not awaken 

As yet for many a year ; 
There 's not on earth a jewel, 

That 's worth one grief-born tear. 
Long may the harp be silent. 

If Sorrow's touch alone, 
Upon the chords descending. 

Has power to wake its tone. 

I 'd never be a poet, 

My bounding heart to hush 
And lay down at the altar 

For Sorrow's foot to crush. 



108 NOT A roET. 

Ah, no ! I '11 gather sunshine 
FoT coming evening's hours ; 

And while the spring-time lingers, 
I '11 gamer up its flowers, 

I fain would learn the music 

Of those who dwell in heaven 
For woe-tuned harp was never 

To seraph fingers given. 
But I will strive no longer 

To waste my heart- felt mirth ; 
I will mind me that the gifted 

Are the stricken ones of earth. 



109 



TWO NIGHTS IN THE "NIEUW 

NEDERLANDTS." 

It was on the night of the 25th of February, 1643, that a 
middle-aged man, with an honest, frank, sun-browned face 
and a powerful frame, sat and warmed himself by the kitchen 
fire in the Governor's house at Fort Amsterdam. He was 
singularly uneasy ; every now and then clenching his fist and 
moving his nervous arm as in angry gesticulation ; while his 
fine eye turned from one object to another with a kind of 
eager dread, and his naturally clear, open countenance was 
drawn into a scowl compounded of various strong emotions. 
He was alone, and bore himself much as though belonging to 
the household ; for he certainly could not have been greatly 
inferior to its master in point of dignity. All within doors 
was perfectly silent — painfully so, it seemed to the stern 
watcher — and within, the heavy, monotonous tread of a sen- 
tinel, at a little distance, gave the only evidence that the pulse 
of the young city had not ceased its breathings. At last the 
man drew from his pocket a massive " Nuremburg egg" and 
held it up to the light. 

" Twelve o'clock — five — almost ten minutes past ! Thank 
God, if their hellish plan has miscarried ! " 

A long, loud, terrible shriek, as of a multitude of voices 
combining their agony, came up from the distance even as 
he spoke ; and, dropping the watch upon the stone hearth, the 
listener sprang with an exclamation of horror to his feet. 

" God forgive me, if I curse my race and nation ! It is a 
deed worthy of the devil — and they call themselves men and 
Christians ! " 

He strode up and down the long kitchen, his brows knit 
and his hand on the hilt of his sword, muttering as he went, 

VOL. u. 10 



110 TWO NIGHTS IN THE ' 

" Without the consent of the committee ! — m the face of my 
protestation as its head! — the bloody-minded littleness of the 
assassin! — creeping upon the defenceless at midnight ! — why, 
their savage doings at Swanendael and Staten Island were 
Christian deeds to this ! If evil come, if evil come of it, 
Wilhelm Kieft, thou shalt be the first sufferer, if there be 
strength in the hand. of Pieterszen de Vries to push thee from 
thy kennel. Dog! base dog! Nay; I belie the brute to 
name thee so, cowardly blood-sucker that thou art ! " 

He opened the door, and, walking forth, mounted the para- 
pets. The cries of suffering and terror had entirely ceased ; 
but the noise of fire-arms came from Pavonia, and gleams of 
light flashed from the opposite shore and gilded the waters of 
the bay. 

" A mighty feat, indeed ! ' worthy the heroes of old Rome ! ' 
Noble Kieft ! thy employers shall have a full account of these 
brave doings." . 

The speaker felt a hand upon his shoulder. 

" Ha, De Heer ! I am glad to see you." 

" But you should have slept, my good Lilier ; you will 
have cause to think lightly enough of your adopted home, 
without seeing this." 

" What means it, De Vries?" 

" Our gallant Director is desirous of making himself fa- 
mous ; and so has concocted a piece of villany that no bucca- 
neer captain on the high seas would stain his honor withal." 

" I thought an enemy had been surprised, and — " 

" An enemy ! no, Lilier, a friend ! Let us go in — the uix 
smells of murder, and I cannot bear it." 

' I do not understand you. What is it ? " 

•'Treachery. More than one hundred of our friends and 
neighbors, Indians from Tappaen and Wickquaesgeck, lay 
down in sight of the fort to-night, never dreaming of harm ; 
and they have all been murdered in their sleep." 

" Not by white men ? " 

" By Kief's soldiers." 

" Dastardly ' Such things should not be suffered." 



NIETIW NEnr.RLANDTS. Ill 

■" How are they to be avoided ? The Company care but 
little for our interests, farther than our prosperity has a bear- 
ing on their commercial enterprises." 

" They ought to be made to listen ; for if a better and more 
prudent man be not selected to take charge of the colonies, the 
abuses of Van Twnller, as you used to recount them to me 
hi Holland, will find more than a parallel." 

" Wouter Van Tmller was a thrice sodden fool ; yet he 
had a man's heart in his bosom, and his errors were the result 
of weakness, not vice ; he had no taste for lapping up human 
blood. We have men to govern us in the East Indies, but 
here they give us nothing but blockheads and serpents." 

By this time the two men had gained the kitchen fire, and 
the light was shining full upon their faces. The companion 
of the patroon was a very young man, of slight figure and 
delicate features, and withal a high-bred air, which denoted 
his patrician origin. His leading characteristic seemed to be 
extreme gentleness ; and certainly there was nothing in the 
large blue eyes and bright golden curls that fell about his 
neck, instead of being gathered into a queue alter the fashion 
of the Hollanders, (if the observer could but shut his eyes on 
•an occasional drawing in of the lip and swell of the nostril,) 
indicative of superior manliness. Yet, (and the bold voyager 
knew it and loved him for it,) in that very bosom slept mate- 
rials for a hero. So might have looked the voluptuous king 
who dallied away his time among fountains and flowers and 
singing girls; but became a lion in the hour of peril, and, 
building his owm funeral pile, clung to his throne till holh 
were ashes. Yet the comparison is not a fair one, for Lilier, 
if gentle as a girl when there was no cause for the exercise 
of deeper qualities, was also as pure. With a spirit deeply 
imbued with religious feeling, he had early enibraced the sen- 
timents of the Huguenots ; and when a mere boy had turned 
to Holland, the asylum of the persecuted of all creeds and 
nations. There he had met with De Vries, then master ot 
artillery in the service of the United Provinces, and after- 
wards the hardy voyager and discreet colonist. There was 



112 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 

something in the bold chivalrous character of this enterprising 
man, to whom, as the historian Bancroft has it, Delaware ' 
owes its existence, that made him a kind of lion-hearted 
Eichard to the Frenchman. Hence a warm friendship 
sprang up between them ; for which the impulsive romance 
of the one and the steady sternness of the other, offered , 
ample materials. De Vries seemed ever ready to regard his "" 
young friend with the affectionate interest of a parent ; while, 
at the same time, particularly in the presence of strangers, he 
preserved towards him a deference of manner which men 
were ready enough to set down to the account of high birth. 

The Hollander had spread open his broad, tough palm to 
the genial blaze, and was watching in gloomy silence the 
flickering light coquetting with the rafters above his head, 
apparently without a thought of his companion, who leaned 
pensively against the pictorial tiles in the chimney, when the 
door was suddenly pushed open, and two persons sprang into 
the centre of the kitchen. The first was a tall savage, nearly 
naked, his face painted with colors of red and black, a snake- 
skin bound around his forehead, a tuft of coarse plumes on 
his head, and tomahawk in hand ; the other was a female. 
She cast a timid glance about her as she entered, and glided 
quietly into the shadow of the chimney, as though shrinking 
from the bold glare of the light. Not so the man. Eecog- 
nizing the patroon, he planted himself at once before him and 
unhe^tatingly claimed his protection. They had come from 
beyond the Tappaen, he said, he and his brother warriors, 
with their women and children, and encamped at Pavonia ; 
but the Maquas, their enemies from fort Orange, had come 
upon them in the night, and murdered all while sleeping. 

" No ! by heaven, Lickquequa," exclaimed the honest 
patroon, " you shall not so belie the Maquas. The fort is no 
place for a skin of the color that you wear ; you have run 
your neck into the trapper's njose. It is the Swannekins 
themselves that have murdered your warriors." 

The Indian laid his hand upon his tomahawk, and his eyes 
glittered. 



NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 113 

" Do j'ou understand me ? Your enemies are here — 
tvithin these very walls — they will send you to a better hunt- 
ing-ground than Wickquaesgeck." 

" Lickquequa will take a scalp with him," said the Indian, 
with a grim smile. 

" Ay, take it ! " answered the palroon, lifting a mass of 
giizzled hair from his forehead, and showing a tempting line 
of white that presented quite a contrast to the bronzed com- 
plexion below, " take it, and avenge the foul wrong you have 
sufTered to-night." 

The muscles in the face of the Indian relaxed just suHl- 
ciently to evince his admiration, without compromising his 
reputation for dignified indifference ; but Lilier had too little 
knowledge of Indian character to read the emotion correctly. 

" You are mad, De Heer," he exclaimed earnestly ; " you 
never consented to this murder ; you are the Indian's friend, 
and will get this man in safety from the fort. Come, we will 
convey him through the back door, and along " 

" We will convey him openly. Lickquequa is my neigh- 
bor, and entitled to my protection. I will not skulk and 
creep about for fear of Kieft and his blood-hounds ; I will go 
out openly, with this man beside me ; and, if any one attempts 
to interfere, I will shoot him." 

The Frenchman saw that it would be useless to dispute 
the point, for De Vries' blood was heated ; and he followed 
the two men in silence. As they passed out, and were about 
closing the door, the woman who had escaped with Lickque- 
qua, slid silently through the opening and crept along in the 
shadow cast upon the ground by the group before her. The 
young man beckoned her to draw nearer, for it was prudent 
to make the party as small as possible ; and, shrinkingly, the 
woman obeyed. That was a beautiful face which raised 
itself beaming with gratitude to Lilier's, but in the next 
moment it was nearly hidden in the embroidered mantle 
folded over her bosom ; for the Indian maiden was either 
very modest or very timid. The gate was unguarded, and 
they passed on without a challenge. 

VOL. 11. 10^ 



114 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 

Lilier's sympathies had at first been strongly enlisted in 
the cause of humanity; and now that cause was scarce 
likely to lose anything by uniting youth and beauty with it. 
There was a deep cast of romance in his character, and this 
incident had sufficient romantic interest in it, to combine with 
the witching hour and the glittering moonlight in giving to 
hiy thoughts a color which he would have been ashamed to 
show De Vries. Thus it was that his manner to the fugitive 
Indian girl, while studiously attentive, yet put on a delicate 
reserve, which Avould have been peculiarly appropriate had an 
honorable cavalier suddenly found himself the escort and pro- 
tector of one of the fairest dames of Europe. Human nature 
is everywhere the same, of whatever hue the cheek may be ; 
and understands the language addressed to it, though the 
tongue may use a strange jargon ; but it was difficult to dis- 
cover whether the courtly manners of the young Frenchman 
were in this instance appreciated. 

When they had crossed a corner of the -woods and set 
their fugitives safely on their way to Tappaen, De Vries pro- 
posed taking leave of them and returning to the fort. 

" Go," said Lickquequa, coldly. 

The maiden raised again her finely-sculptured head, and as 
she did so, a bright moonbeam came glancing downwards, 
revealing the rich complexion, the large, mournful eyes, the 
finely-arched brows, and the luxurious lips. It was imme- 
diately lowered again, and she followed in the track of Lick- 
quequa. 

" She must not go alone, so unprotected," exclaimed 
Lilier, looking at De Vries for approbation. 

The patroon smiled. 

" She is a woman, and the Indian takes no notice of her." 

" She does not want his notice, nor ours. She is in her 
own palace now, and is growing quite the queen. Look ! 
see how freely and proudly she steps. She does not crouch 
vjow, and would laugh at the very word protection. See ! her 
path leads away from Lickquequa's. God grant that she has 
no father's, or brother's, or lover's death to avenge; for, 



NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 115 

Lilier, it is proud blood that flows in those veins, and, if she 
would, she might light a train with it that Nieuw Neder- 
landts would feel to its centre. I know by her dress that she 
is the daughter of one of their sagamores." 

" But woman's words have no weight in the council." 
•' Certainly not. These people, however, have such broad 
ears when the cry is for vengeance, that a word whispered in 
the wigwam may call into action a thousand tomahawks." 

Lilier looked after the retreating figure of the Indian mai- 
den, and thought of Zenobia ; then he remembered the 
glimpses he had of her face, and he walked back to the fort 
by the side of De Vries without speaking a word. 

The treachery of the whites, as might have been antici- 
pated, met with a deadly vengeance. The exasperated sava- 
ges scoured the whole country from Nieuw Amsterdam 
nearly to fort Orange ; and houses, barns and haystacks 
made merry bonfires for them in the dead of winter. Grain 
and cattle were destroyed ; men stripped of their scalps and 
left bleeding at their hearth-stones ; and women and children 
dragged, shrieking, from the ruins of their homes and the 
corses of the slain, to encounter cold, fatigue, and not unfre- 
quently death, with their unfeeling captors. In this state of 
things, De Vries applied to the governor for soldiers to pro- 
tect his estate, but received only a promise. 

" I will go myself," said the indignant patroon to his 
friend ; " one arm without dishonor is worth more than a 
score of these paid murderers ; and though they only obeyed 
orders, poor fellows ! I believe an honest man's hearth is 
better without them. Come with me, Lilier, in God's name, 
and we two shall be enough for Vriesendael." 

A long and unsatisfactory conversation with the governor 
delayed the departure of De Vries beyond the appointed hour ; 
but, at last, all was arranged, and the two friends set off in a 
little boat together. The sun was brightly beautiful, winter 
though it was. The trees, all decked out in trappings of crys- 
tal, set ofT with brilliants of every hue, leaned over the bank 



116 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 






to see themselves in the mirror below ; and pencils of liglij 
seemingly splintered by contact with the cold air, scattered 
showers of scintillations on the sheets of ice that bordered the 
little sea, on the shivering water, and the snow-covered shore. 
Evening came on, and the boat, notwithstanding a floating 
block of ice that now and then threatened to upset it, shot like 
a winged bird over the crisp water. A dip, a glimmer of sil- 
ver as the moonlight came to kiss the uplifted pinion, a broken 
chain of pearls — and down again went the disappointed 
wing, to bear up with it the same shattered treasures, and 
again and again to seek them, till that little boat, with its 
steadily plying oars, became a struggling, living thing, bear- 
ing within it a restless human spirit. On sped they thus, till 
about the time of midnight's coming, they shot into the swifter 
current formed by the mingling of the waters. , Rounding a 
miniature cape covered with gigantic trees, they came sud- 
denly in sight of Vriesendael. 

" Good God ! " burst from the lips of the patroon ; and, 
leaping from the boat, he dashed through the water, and 
sprang, sword in hand, upon the bank. Lilier was scarce a 
step behind him. 

"Hold, De Vries ! stay! listen — listen to reason, De 
Heer!" 

" Reason ! and my property on fire, my people murdered, 
and perhaps my own family ! Curses on the bloody policy 
of Wilhelm Kieft ! It is his own hand that has set fire 
to Vriesendael." 

A fearful conflagration was indeed sweeping over the little 
valley. The houses of the tenants, barns, haystacks — every- 
thing combustible was now in a broad blaze ; and, with the 
crackling Df the flames, the crash of falling timbers, and the 
occasional discharge of fire-arms, mingled the triumphant yell 
of the maddened and revengeful savages. The first impulse 
of De Vries lasted but a moment, and then he collected all the 
energies of his powerful mind, and looked upon the scene with 
. the eye of a brave man accustomed to danger, and prepared 
to meet just such a crisis as this. The fury of the savages 



NIEUW NEDERLANDTS. 117 

was now all directed towards his own dwelling, a strong 
block house witli embrasures ; and, from the firing, it was 
evident that some of his people had taken refuge there. If 
this could be reached, under his direction the vengeance of 
the foe might be baffled ; and to reach it unobserved, and 
effect an entrance, became now the all-important object. 
Keeping within the shadow of the woods, they crept along, 
nearer and nearer the glaring light, and nearer the yelling 
savages, treading do\vn the frozen snow and snapping the 
brittle twigs fearlessly ; for it must have been a heavy sound 
indeed that would have attracted attention at that terrible 
hour. As they passed a jagged rock, casting a deep shadow 
on the ground, a light tread, scarce heavier than that of a 
squirrel, attracted the attention of De Vries ; and, at the same 
moment, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. 

" White chief, stay ! no — no go ! Lickquequa — he save ; 
stay — stay ! " 

There was plenty of light to see the beautiful face of the 
Indian girl, as these words with difficulty broke from her 
lips ; her warm, dark eye, with all its pleading earnestness, 
turning from one face to the other ; timidity, everything but 
the touching interest of a grateful heart, entirely banished ; 
and her whole countenance eloquent with truth and nobleness 
of purpose. De Vries half paused to answer ; but as he did 
so, a shriek rang out from his own dwelling — a woman's 
voice. In the same instant a glittering tomahawk glanced 
past him ; there came a savage yell, and two dark forms 
sprang into the red glare cast at his feet by the burning build- 
ings. He heard the wild, terrified scream of the Indian girl, 
a groan, and a crackling of the underbrush as of something 
falling ; and then with two or three bounds he left the whole 
group far behind him. That other shriek ! — the voice was 
dearly familiar, and it drowned, for the moment, every thought 
of the mere friend. 

The tomahawk, that had caught the eye of De Vries, struck 
the temple of Lilier. He reeled, clutched with both hands at 
the vacant air, and plunged into the crusted snow, stunned 



118 TWO NIGHTS IN THE 

and bleeding. In a moment his foes were upon him in a II 
their savage fury ; but the heart of a friend is quicker and 
stronger than the vengeful hand of an enemy, even though 
there be a broadsword in it. The arms of the grateful Indian 
girl were thrown about him — a beautiful defence ; and her 
cheek, crimsoned with his blood, rested protectingly upon his 
forehead. How earnestly simple was the tale she told, her 
soul-full face looking up from the hair all matted with the red 
gore ! And how eloquently she pleaded for her saviour 
The savages paused, with their hands uplifted, clutching fast 
the instruments of death ; and bestowing a single glance on 
the girl, turned in astonishment towards the block-house. 
The firing had entirely ceased, and not a single savage yell 
was to be heard. In his o\vn opened door stood, strongly 
relieved by the full light, the herculean figure of the hardy 
and courageous patroon ; and before him, within arm's reach, 
an Indian, seemingly engaged in a parley. The strange 
silence also arrested the attention of the girl. She raised her 
head, and a cry of joy broke from the lips, and left them 
parted with a bright smile. 

" Go ! " she said in her own musical tongue, " go ! it is 
Lickquequa, and the white men are saved." 

She was right. The Indian, whom De Vries had led from 
the fort on the night of the massacre, had represented the 
patroon as a friendly chief, who loved his red neighbors ; and 
the Indians had already slung their bows over their shoulders, 
and lowered their tomahawks by their sides. The two sav- 
ages looked again on the scalp of the wounded man greedily ; 
but it was half-sheltered by the beautiful person of his pro- 
tectress"; and they turned away and joined silently the dark 
body retreating from the besieged house. 

As soon as they were gone, the girl bent tenderly over her 
charge, putting her cheek close down to his lips, to see if she 
could catch a breath upon it, and trying to win, by the pressure 
of her slight fingers, a single answering flutter of the heart. 
It came at last — a light, faint tremor; and radiant was the 
flash of joy that lighted up her face, radiant, and yet half-sub- 



NIEUVV NEDERLANDTS. 119 

dued, as though the breath of a smile might be too strong for 
tne faUering wing of the half-reluctant spirit just poising 
Kself upon the outer verge of life. Hastily she unbuckled the 
aword at his side, slid his head from her knees, and stole up 
vhe hill-side, among jagged rocks and broken wood and 
crusted snow, till her practised eye recognized the spot she 
«ought. Then kneeling down and digging with her unwonted 
weapon into the bank, she labored patiently until she reached 
the ground. It was covered with green leaves ; and snatch- 
ing a handful hastily, she hurried back with them to her 
charge. Again raising his head to her bosom, she washed 
the wound with the soft snow gathered from beneath the 
crust ; and, warming the leaves between her hands, laid them 
gently upon it, and bound them with her own girdle of wam- 
pum. Then removing the mantle from her shoulders, she 
folded it softly about his ; and now clasping his icy hands, 
now watching the uncertain breath that seemed every moment 
ready to flit from his lip, she bent over him as tenderly as a 
mother over the cradle of her first-born. And her care was 
rewarded ; for, long before De Vries could leave his alarmed 
family and go out in search of the corse of his friend, the 
languid eyes of the awakened Frenchman had turned help- 
lessly to the dark, tearful ones watching his slumbers ; and he 
had closed them again, more than content with his resting- 
place. He slept, to dream of that same beautiful face ; and 
she looked upon his closed lids and dreamed too ; such dreams 
as our first mother must have had when she opened her eyes 
on Eden. It was not an easy thing for the poor girl to resign 
her charge when the white men came and took him from her j 
for she felt as though she had a claim upon that life which 
her tenderness had won back to earth after the last cord was 
loosened and the spirit's wing lifted heavenwards. 

Two centuries have passed, and the colors of by-gone events 
are so blinded and dimmed, and in some instances glossed 
over by modern falsehood, that little more than the crimson 
may be recognized. The heart of truth, the eve of love, and 



120 TWO NIGHTS IN THE NIEITW NEDERLANDTS. 

the brow of beauty, are things that fade from the earth, to write 
their names on the pages of heaven. So is a holy lesson 
lost ; for though truth and purity yet dwell with us, there is 
a poison in the breath of the world that keeps them forever 
hidden. Thus two beings who lived long j 

" 'Mid trees and flowers and waterfalls, | 

And fountains bubbling from the moss, 
And leaves that quiver with delight, 
As from their shade the warbler calls," 

who lived and loved in a luxurious wilderness, and passed in 
the golden autumn of their days, like the beautiful, rich things 
about them, can find no historian. Let their memories rest 
with them — the halo has fallen on some heart. Yet would 
any look upon a quiet, simple picture, let them spend a day 
among the Helderburgs. I have seen there a doting old lady, 
who loves to talk of the flowery dell where she was born, and 
the happy generations that have moved among those flowers. 
If you could induce her to pass down the river with you, she 
would point you to an ancient tree, beneath whose young 
shade a French Huguenot, of high birth and higher virtues, 
plighted his faith to the daughter of a proud Sagamore living 
among the hills. And the old lady loves well to boast of the 
French and Indian blood in her veins. 



121 



LUCY BUTTON. 

It was an October morning, warm and sunny, but with 
even its sunshine subdued into a mournful softness, and its 
gorgeous drapery chastened by a touch of the dreamy atmos- 
phere into a sympathy with sorrow. And there was a sor- 
rowing one who needed sympathy on that still, holy morning 

— the sympathy of the great Heart which beats in Nature's 
bosom — for she could hope no other. Poor Lucy Dutton ! 

There was a funeral that morning — a stranger would have 
judged by the gathering that the great man of the village was 
dead, and all that crowd had come out to do his ashes honor 

— but it was not so. Yet the little, old-fashioned church was 
filled to overflowing. Some there were that turned their eyes 
devoutly to the holy man that occupied the sacred desk, receiv- 
ing from his lips the words of life ; some looked upon the 
little rofTm that stood, covered with its black pall, upon a table 
directly below him, and perhaps thought of their own mortal- 
ity, or that of their bright little ones ; while many, very many, 
gazed with cold curiosity at the solitary mourner occupying 
the front pew. This was a young creature, in the very spring- 
time of life, — a frail, erring being, whose only hope was in Him 
who said, " Neither do I condemn thee — go, and sin no more." 
There was a weight of shame upon her head, and woe upon 
her heart, that together made the bereaved young mother cower 
almost to the earth before the prying eyes that came to looic 
upon her in her distressing humiliation. Oh ! it was a jnti- 
ful sight! that crushed, helpless creature's agonj^. 

But the year before, and this same lone mourner was con- 
sidered a sweet, beautiful child, whom everybody was bound 
to protect and love ; because, but that she was the pet lamb 
of a doting old woman, she was Avithout friend and protector. 

VOL. u. 11 



122 LUCY BUTTON. 

Lucy Dutton was the last blossom on a tree which had boasted 
many fair ones. When the grave opened to one after another 
of that doomed family, till none but this bright, beautiful bud 
was left, she became the all in all, and with the doting affec- 
tion of age was she cherished. When poverty came to Granny 
Dutton's threshold, she drew her one priceless jewel to her 
heart, and laughed at poverty. When sorrows of every kind 
compassed her about, and the sun went down in her heaven 
of hope, another rose in a holier heaven of love ; and Lucy • 
Dutton was this fountain of love-born light. The old lady 
and her pretty darling occupied a small, neat cottage, at the > 
foot of the hill, with a garden attached to it, in which the child ' 
flitted all day long, like a glad spirit among the flowers. And, 
next to her child-idol, the simple-hearted old lady loved those 
flowers, with a love which pure natures ever bear to the beau- 
tiful. It was by these, and the fruit produced by the little 
garden, that the twain lived. Many a fine carriage drew up 
before the door of the humble cottage, and bright ladies and 
dashing gentlemen sauntered beneath the shade, while the 
rosy fingers of Lucy adjusted bouquets for them, her bright 
lips wreathed with smiles, and her sunny eye turning to her 
grandmother at the placing of every stem, as though for appro- 
bation of her taste. Not a child in all the neigborhood was 
so happy as Lucy. Not a child in all the neighborhood was 
so beautiful, so gentle, and so good. And nobody ever thought 
of her as anything but a child. Though she grew to the 
height of her tallest geranium, and her form assumed womanly 
proportions, nobody, not even the rustic beaux around her, 
thought of her as anything but a child. Lucy was so artless, 
and loved her dear old grandmother so truly, that the two 
were somehow connected in people's minds, and it seemed as 
impossible that the girl should grow older, as that the old lady 
should grow younger. 

Lucy was just booked for fifteen, W/th the seal of innocence 
upon her heart, and a rose-leaf on her cheek, Avhen " the 
Herman property," a fine summer residence that had been for 
years unoccupied, was purchased by a widow lady from the 



LUCY DUTTON. 123 

metropolis. She came to Alderbrook early in the spring, 
accompanied by her only son, to visit her new possessions, 
and finding the spot exceedingly pleasant, she determined to 
remain there. And so Lucy met the young metropolitan ; 
and Lucy was beautiful, and trusting, and thoughtless ; and 
he was gay, selfish, and profligate. Needs the story to be 
told? 

When the Howards went away, Lucy awoke from her 
dream. She looked about her, and upon herself, with the 
veil taken from her eyes ; and then she turned from all she 
had ever loved ; for, in the breaking up of those dreams, was 
broken poor Lucy's heart. 

Nay, censor, Lucy was a child — consider how very young, 
how very untaught — oh ! her innocence was no match for 
the sophistry of a gay city youth ! And young Howard stole 
her unthinking heart the first day he looked in to purchase a 
bouquet. Poor, poor Lucy ! 

Before the autumn leaves fell, Granny Button's bright pet 
knelt in her little chamber, and upon her mother's grave, and 
doAvn by the river-side, where she had last met Justin Howard, 
and prayed for death. Sweet, joyous Lucy Button, asking 
to lay her bright head in the grave ! Spring came, and shame 
was stamped upon the cottage at the foot of the hill. Lucy 
bowed her head upon her bosom, and refused to look upon any- 
thing but her baby ; and the old lady shrunk, like a shrivelled 
leaf, before this last and greatest of her troubles. The neigh- 
borhood had its usual gossip. There were taunts, and sneers, 
and coarse jests, and remarks severely true ; but only a little, 
a very little, pity. Lucy bore all this well, for she knew that 
it was deserved ; but she had worse than this to bear. Every 
day she knelt by the bed of the one being who had doted upon 
her from infancy, and begged her blessing, but in vain. 

" Oh ! that I had laid you in the coffin, with your dead 
mother, when all around me said that the breath had passed 
from you ! " was the unvarying reply ; " then my gray hairs 
might have gone down to the grave without dishonor from the 



124 



LUCY DUTTON. 



child that I toolc from the gate of death, and bore for years 
upon my bosom. Would you had died, Lucy ! " 

And Lucy would turn away her head, and, in the bitterness 
of her heart, echo, " Ay ! would that I had died ! " Then 
she would take her baby in her arms, and, while the scalding 
tears bathed its unconscious face, pray God to forgive the 
wicked wish, and preserve her life for the sake of this sinless 
heir to shame. And sometimes Lucy would smile — not that 
calm, holy smile which usually lingers about an infant's cradle, 
but a faint, sicklied play of the love-light within, as though 
the mother's fond heart were ashamed of its own throbbings. 
But, before the autumn passed, Lucy Dutton was fearfully 
stricken. Death came ! She laid her last comfort from her 
bosom into the coffin,, and they were now bearing it to the 
grave, — she, the only mourner. It mattered but little that 
the grandmother's forgiveness and blessing came now ; Lucy 
scarce knew the difference between these words and those last 
spoken ; and most earnestly did she answer, " Would, would 
that I had died ! " Poor, poor Lucy ! 

She sat all through the sermon, and the singing, and the 
prayer, with her head bowed upon the side of the pew ; and 
when at last they bore the coffin to the door, and the congre- 
gation began to move forward, she did not raise it until the 
kind clergyman came and led her out to take a last look at 
her dead boy. Then she laid her thin, pale face against his 
within the coffin, and sobbed aloud. And now some began 
to pity the stricken girl, and whisper to their neighbors that 
she was more sinned against than sinning. Still, none came 
forward to w^hisper the little word which might have brought 
healing, but the holy man whose duty it was. He took her 
almost forcibly from the infant clay, and strove to calm her, 
while careless eyes came to look upon that dearer to her than 
her own heart's blood. Finally, curiosity was satisfied ; they 
closed the coffin, screwed down the lid, spread the black cloth 
over it, and the procession began to form. Minister Green 
left the side of the mourner, and took his station in advance, 
accompanied by some half dozen others ; then four men fol- 



LUCY DDTTON. 125 

lowed, bearing the light cofRn in their hands, and all eyes 
were turned upon the mourner. She did not move. 

" Pass on, madam," said Squire Field, who always acted 
the part of marshal on such occasions ; and, though little 
given to the weakness of feeling, he now softened his voice 
as much as it would bear softening. " This way — right be- 
hind the — the — pass on!" 

Lucy hesitated a moment, and many a generous one longed 
to step forward and give her an arm; but selfish prudence for- 
bade. One bright girl, who had been Lucy's playmate from 
the cradle, but had not seen her face for many months, drew 
impulsively towards her ; but she met a reproving eye from 
the crowd, and only whispering, " I do pity you, Lucy !" she 
shrunk back, and sobbed almost as loud as her erring friend. 
Lucy started at the words, and, gazing wildly round her, tot- 
tered on after the coffin. 

Loud, and slow, and fearfully solemn, stroke after stroke, 
the old church-hell doled forth its tale ; and slowly and 
solemnly the crowd moved on with a measured tread, though 
there was many a careless eye and many a smiling lip, turn- 
ing to other eyes and other lips, with something like a jest 
between them. On moved the crowd after the mourner ; 
while she, Avith irregular, labored step, her arms crossed on 
her bosom, and her head bent to the same resting-place, just 
kept pace with the body of her dead boy. Winding through 
the opened gate into the church-yard, they went trailing slow- 
ly through the long, dead grass, while some of the children 
crept slily from the procession, to pick up the tufts of scarlet 
and yellow leaves, which made this place of graves strangely 
gay; and several young people wandered off, arm in arm, 
pausing as they went, to read the rude inscriptions lettered on 
the stones. On went the procession, away to the farthermost 
corner, where slept the stranger and the vagabond. Here a 
little grave had been dug, and the coffin was now set down 
beside it, while the long procession circled slowly round. 
Several went up and looked into the dark, damp cradle of the 
dead child ; one observed to his neighbor that it was very 

VOL. II. 11* 



126 LUCY DUTTON. 

shallow ; and another said that Tom Jones always slighted his 
work when there was nobody to see to it ; anyhow, it was not 
much matter, the child would stay buried ; and another let 
drop a jest, a hard, but not very witty one, though it was fol- 
lowed by a smothered laugh. All this passed quietly ; noth- 
ing was spoken above a low murmur ; but Lucy heard it all ; 
and, as she heard and remembered, what a repulsive thing 
seemed to her the human heart ! Poor Lucy Button ! 

Minister Green stood at the head of the grave and said a 
prayer, while Lucy leaned against a sickly-looking tree, alone, 
and pressed her cold hands against her temples, and wondered 
if she should ever pray again — if God would hear her if she 
should. Then they laid the little cofRn upon ropes, and 
gently lowered it. The grave was too short, or the men were 
careless, for there was a harsh grating against the' hard earth, 
which made Lucy start and extend her arms ; but she instant- 
ly recollected herself, and, clasping her hands tightly over her 
mouth-, lest her agony should make itself heard, she tried to 
stand calmly. Then a handful of straw was thrown upon the 
coffin, and immediately a shovelful of earth followed. Oh ! 
that first sinking of the cold clod upon the bosom we have 
loved ! What a fearful, shivering sensation, does it send to 
the heart and along the veins ! And then the benumbing 
faintness which follows, as though our own breath were strug- 
gling up through that damp covering of earth ! Lucy gasped 
and staggered, and then she twined her arm about the body 
of the little tree, and laid her cheek against its rough bark 
and strove hard to keep herself from falling. 

Some thought the men. were very long in filling up the 
grave, but Lucy thought nothing about it. She did not, after 
that first shovelful, hear the earth as it fell ; and when, after 
all was done and the sods of withered grass had been laid on, 
Minister Green came to tell her, she did not hear his voice. 
When she did, she pushed back the hair from her hollowed 
temples, looked vacantly into his face, and shook her head. 
Others came up to her — a good-natured man who had been 
kind to her grandmother ; then the deacon's wife, followed by 



LUCY BUTTON. 127 

two or tKree other women ; but Lucy only smiled and shook 
her head. Glances full of troubled mystery passed from one 
to another ; there was an alarmed look on many faces, which 
those more distant seemed to comprehend ; and still others 
came to speak to Lucy, It Avas useless — she could find no 
meaning in their words — the star of intellect had gone out — 
the temple was darkened. Poor, poor Lucy Dutton ! 

They bore her home — for she was passive and helpless — 
home to the sick old grandmother, who laid her withered 
hand on those bright locks, and kissed the cold cheek, and 
took her to her bosom, as though she had been an infant. 
And Lucy smiled, and talked of playing by the brook, and 
chasing the runaway bees, and of toys for her baby-house, 
and wondered why they Avere all weeping, particularly dear 
grandmamma, who ought to be so happy. But this lasted 
only a few days, and then another grave was made, and yet 
another, in the poor's corner ; and the grandmother and her 
shattered idol slept together. The grave is a blessed couch 
and pillow to the wretched. Rest thee there, poor Lucy ! 



128 



MYSTERY. 

Life is all a mystery. The drawing of the breath, the 
Dealing of the pulse, the flowing of the blood, none can com- 
prehend. "We know that we are sentient beings, gifted witn 
strange powers, both intellectual and physical; capable of act- 
ing, thinking, feeling, comparing, reasoning, and judging; 
but we do not know by what means we perform these differ- 
ent functions, not even so much as to comprehend how the 
simplest thought is originated. The mind of an idiot — of 
one of the lower animals even — is a study too deep for us. 
" The goings forth of the wind," the " balancing of the clouds," 
the living leaf bursting from the dead brown stem, all pro- 
cesses of nature however common or simple, are beyond the 
grasp of human intellect. Each of us is a mystery to self 
and to the friends that look upon us. We raise alRarm, and 
we know that in that simple movement a thousand little 
assistants are required ; but we do not fully understand the 
philosophy of their application ; and we are totally ignorant 
of the grand principle, without which they are cold, unfeeling 
clay. Our friends, too, are complete mysteries to us. They 
are always acting as we were sure they would not ; and they 
move about complete embodiments of mystery ; with hearts 
almost wholly unexplored, heads full of strange theories, and 
natures subject to incomprehensible impulses and caprices. 
Within, without, around, we can comprehend nothmg ; we 
cannot solve even the simplest thesis of nature, whether writ-' 
ten on the human constitution, or this earth builded by the 
great Architect for our use. The past to us is chaos ; the 
present is a waking dream, in which " seeing we see not, and 
hearing we hear not ;" and the future is wrapped in the deep- 
est, the most impenetrable obscurity. We know neither hov 



MYSTERY. 129 

lior for what purpose we exist ; nor what is to be the destiny 
of that principle within us which every heart-throb proclaims 
to be eternal. When we pause to think, our own shadows 
may well alarm us ; and when we turn our dim, weak eyes 
on our own ignorance, even to our partial selves so palpable, 
we shall not dare to sneer at the wildest vagary that the hu- 
man mind has ever engendered. Sneer ! why, what know 
we, poor, puny, imbecile creatures that we are ! of truth or 
falsehood, save that moral truth which stamps us the oflfspring 
of the Eternal; that unswerving trust which is our only 
safety — our anchor while drifting on these dark, unknown 
waters ? There is none to solve the deep mystery of the things 
about us ; but we feel in the darkness the clasp of a strong 
Hand. Oh, may we never strive to cast that Hand from us ! 
In the far, far distance burns one Star. Oh, may we never raise 
a cloud between its light and our bewildered eyes ! May we 
never, never forget, in the midst of the mystery by which we 
are encompassed, that " we are not our own," that we are not 
gifted with the power of guiding ourselves ; and may we 
yield th^^ust of childhood to the sure foot, the strong arm, 
and theipl-seeing eye of Him who made us what we are, 
and is leading us to the place where we may learn what we 
have been and shall be. 



130 



THE PRIEST'S SOLILOQUY. 

AN EXTRACT. 

It is even so, thought the good old man, as the door closed 
behind the misguided misanthrope ; this is a beautiful world 
of ours, but it is the gilded cage of many a fluttering spirit 
that, nevertheless, would shrink from freedom if it were 
offered. Keyling is miserable, more miserable than the poor 
wretch crouching amid rags, and filth, and loathsomeness, 
(for such suffering can bear no comparison with mental ago- 
ny,) and yet he knows not why. What matters it to him 
that the earth is green, and the heavens surpassingly magnifi- 
cent ? He knows that the impress of his foot will ere long 
disappear from the one, and his eye close upon the other. 
He knows that the flowers will bloom, the birds sing ; that 
summer will flush the fields, and winter bring ■pturn its 
peculiar attractions, when his heart is pulseless and his tongue 
mute ; but he does not know that in the dissevering of the,sil- 
ver cord is gained the freedom for which the spirit pants. This 
world is too narrow for his soul to expand in, and he feels 
cramped and chained ; yet, if the door of his cage were flung 
open, he would tremble at sight of the unknown space beyond, 
and would not venture out, but cling to the gilded wires until 
torn away by the resistless hand of death. Earth never sat- 
isfied an immortal mind ; the " living soul," which is nothing 
less than the breathing of Deity himself, can be satisfied but 
with infinity — infinity of life, action, and knowledge. Its 
own feeble glimmer is enough for the fire-fly ; and its wing 
and voice, with the free heavens and beautiful earth, for the 
bird ; they were formed by the Almighty's hand, but their 
life is not an emanation of his life, and their little spirits " go 
downward to the earth." But what can satisfy the deathless 



THE TKIEST's soliloquy. 131 

80ul immured in a clay prison, with but clouded views of the 
finite beauties around it, and wholly unconscious of its divine 
origin and final destiny ? No wonder Keyling is miserable ; 
for he is blinder than the untutored savage who " sees God 
in clouds and hears him in the wind." For years he has 
been struggling for a meteor ; while it receded, he never 
paused or wearied ; but, when his hand closed over it and he 
grasped a shadow, the truth dawned upon his spirit ; and, in 
the bitterness of its first perception, he cursed himself and 
cursed his destiny. He hates the world, and himself and 
mankind, and talks madly of the death-damps, the grave, and 
the slimy earth-worm, as though superior to their horrors ; 
but yet he is in love with life, as much as the veriest devotee 
of pleasure in existence. It is this panting for immortality, 
this longing for a wider range, that makes him sometimes 
imagine, in his impatience, that he is anxious to lie down to 
his eternal rest and never wake. If his spirit could but 
understand its heavenward destiny, if he would learn to look 
beyond these narrow boundaries, if, in despising the worth- 
less, he^j^ld properly estimate the high and imperishable, 
poor KiPIRg would find that even on earth there are inex- 
haustible sources of happiness. Alas for the weakness of 
human nature ! What a very wreck a man becomes when 
left to his own blindness and folly ! The loftier the intellect, 
the higher its aspirations, and the more comprehensive its 
faculties, the lower does it descend in darkness, if the torch 
of religion has never been lighted within. It is misery to 
feel the soul capable of infinite expansion, and allow it a 
range no wider than this fading, ever-changing earth ; to taste 
the bliss of life, mingled with the bitter draught of death ; to 
love the high and holy, and never look toward the fountain 
of holiness — deep, deep, and mingling in its pure tide the 
richness of all wisdom and knowledge. Oh, how depressing 
must be the loneliness of such souls ! How awful the deso- 
lation ! Too high for earth and knowing naught of heaven ! 
Even the good in their natures is perverted, and adds to the 
chaos of darkness within. When they see the strong oppress 



132 



THE PRIEST S SOLILOQUY. 



the weak, vice triumph over virtue, innocence borne down by 
care and poverty, and guiU elevated to a throne, they say 
this is enough to know of Him who holds the reins of such 
a government ; and, in their folly, deem themselves more 
merciful than the Father of mercies. Making this world the 
theatre of life, and the years of man its sum, they fix upon 
this inconceivably small point in comparison with the whole ; 
and, from such a limited view, dare to tax the Ruler of the 
universe with injustice. Unable to comprehend the policy 
of the divine government, and misapprehending the object 
and tendency of earthly suffering, they lose themselves in the 
mazes of sophistry, and become entangled in the net their own 
hands have spread. 

Poor Keyling ! he has drunk of the poisonous tide of infi- 
delity, and every thought is contaminated the moment it 
springs up into the heart. This gives its coloring to the 
earth and sky, to life and death. It breaks the chain that 
binds the world of nature to its Creator, dissolves the strong- 
est fascination of the beautiful things around us, and renders 
meaningless the lessons traced by the finger o^fiod upon 
everything he has made. It removes the prop fro^Bie bend- 
ing reed, and the sunlight from the heart; it binds down the 
wing of hope, and turns the upraised eye earthward ; it offers 
only " the worm, the canker, and the grief," and points the 
fluttering soul to a grave of darkness and oblivion. 



133 



AUNT ALICE. 

To people who look on one side of Aunt Alice's character, 
she appears a saint ; sinless as those who have gone home to 
heaven ; a ministering angel of light. To people who look 
on the reverse of the picture, and see spots of this shining 
through, all distorted by the unhappy medium, she is a 
miserable, canting hypocrite. Both are wrong ; Aunt Alice 
is neither, though much nearer saintship. A third class of 
people, having a wholesome contempt for extremes, and 
intending to be very generous in their estimate, call Aunt 
Alice a singular character; and, moreover, affirm that she 
loves to be singular, and pursues her somewhat eccentric 
course more for the sake of attracting attention and exciting 
remark, than from a love of it. They, too, are wide of the 
mark, ^^t Aunt Alice performs a vast amount of good is 
not to iJBInied ; and that she goes about, her left hand often 
destroying her right hand's work, is equally certain. 

Aunt Alice is a widow ; and, all her children being mar- 
ried, she has nothing to detain her from what she considers 
her duties. Is there a sick bed in all the neighborhood, she 
is there. Her own hand administers the cordial ; her own 
bosom supports the sufferer's head ; her own lips whisper con- 
solation, and breathe balm upon the wounded spirit. Then, 
Aunt Alice is a ministering angel ; and, to see her untiring 
devotion, her ready self-sacrifice, and her humble piety, you 
would wonder that she was left upon the earth where she had 
not a sister spirit. She holds the dying hifant in her arms, 
receives its last sigh, wraps it in its little shroud, and lays it in 
the coffin. Then she turns to the bereaved mother, and tells 
her that her cherished bud is only transplanted to be better 
watched over and cared for ; and Aunt Alice never goes away 
until she sees a clear light breaking through the tears in the 

VOL. II. 12 



134 AUNT ALICE. 

mourner's eye, and knows that the stricken spirit has learned 
to love the Hand that but bore its treasure before it to Para 
dise. But it is only to the poor — the wretchedly, miserably 
poor — that Aunt Alice goes thus. It is only to them that her 
hand is extended, and her purse and heart opened. The rich 
have many friends ; she knows they do not need her, and she 
camiot waste her precious time upon mere civilities. So 
deeply is this impressed upon the mind of Aunt Alice, that 
she too often neglects the lesser charities of life — the ready 
smile, the encouraging word, and the kindly glance, so 
expressive' of sympathetic interest — and thus incurs distrust, 
and builds up a high wall for her own influence to pass over 
before it can reach the heart of the worldling. Moreover, she 
has seen so much of real suffering — that which tears the 
heart, shrivels up the muscles, and withers the spirit within 
the bosom — that the sorrow which cannot be traced back to a 
cause, and an adequate one, (some real, palpable cause, whose 
length, breadth, and entire bearing she can measure,) meets 
no sympathy from her. She feels a contempt for those minor 
ills born of delicacy and nursed in the lap of li^^y. She 
does not know how deeply the cankering iron i|^ eat inio 
the spirit, when she cannot see it protruding beyond ; she does 
not know that the Angel of Woe has a seat which he sonie- 
times occupies by every hearth-stone, and that his visitation is 
always heaviest when he comes disguised. So Aunt Alice 
never pities those who cannot write down some fearful calam- 
ity ; never even does she pity those who can, and are not wil- 
ling to deserve her pity by opening to her its most secret fold. 
Sensitiveness she calls pride, and pride is one of the faults 
which she never forgives. Yet, Aunt Alice is very forgiving ; 
her charity, indeed, " covereth a multitude of sins." The 
most sinful, those who have widest erred — the poor, forsaken 
victim of shame and misery and guilt, she ever takes by the 
hand, whispering kindly, " This is the way ; walk ye in it." 
Among those whom crime has made outcasts from society she 
.abors unceasingly ; and many rescued ones can point to her 
as the parent of their better natures. Yet there is no one so 



AUNT ALICE. 135 

severe on foibles as Aunt Alice. Does her neighbor wear a 
gayer bonnet than pleases her taste ; is any one so dazzled by 
the fascinations of society as to err in world-loving ; are men 
entangled in the net of pleasure and lured to sin, instead of 
being pushed into it by want and woe ; for them Aunt Alice 
has no sympathy. 

Yet, again, a current saying among the poor is, that the 
good lady has no clasp upon her purse ; it is told by others 
that she has a hard and griping hand. In truth. Aunt Alice 
values money highly ; but she values it only so far as it gives 
her the means to benefit her fellow-men. From every penny 
appropriated to another purpose she parts grudgingly. She 
studies economy for the sake of the suffering; and, not con- 
tent with economizing herself, she endeavors to compel those 
with whom she has dealings to do so also. Aunt Alice will 
bandy words a half hour with a tradesman for the sake of a 
few shillings ; and, turning round, she Avill double those shil- 
lings in charity. It is not that she prefers generosity to jus- 
tice, but her view of things is contracted. Her errors are of 
judgment^ot feeling. 

I do nWfvonder that people call Aunt Alice a hypocrite — 
but I do wish that they could look into the bosom where rests 
the meek and quiet spirit which they falsify. Oh ! Aunt 
Alice has a true and generous heart — a heart panting to be 
like His who loved the sinner, while hating all sin. A gen- 
erous heart has she ! Pity that it should be curbed, half its 
fervor checked, and many of its best pulsations hushed, by the 
narrow mind which is its guide and governor ! 



136 



MY FIRST GRIEF. 

AN EXTRACT. 

I LAUGHED and crowed above this water, when I was a 
baby, and, therefore, I love it. I played beside it, when the 
days were years of summer-time, and the summers were 
young eternities of brightness, and, therefore, I love it. It 
was the scene of my first grief, too. Shall I tell you? 
There is not much to tell, but I have a notion that there are 
people above us, up in the air, and behind the clouds, that 
consider little girls' doings about as important as those of 
men and women. The birds and the angels are great level- 
lers. 

It was a dry season ; the brook was low, and a gay trout 
in a coat of golden brown, dotted over with criB|M)n, and a 
silver pinafore, lay, weather-bound, on the half-dr"tones, all 
heated and panting, with about a tea-spoonful of lukewarm 
water, turning lazily from its head, and creeping down its 
back at too slow a pace to afford the sufferer hope of emanci- 
pation. My sympathies — little girls, you must know, are 
made up of love and sympathy, and such like follies, which 
afterwards contract into — nHmporte! I was saying, my 
sympathies were aroused; and, quite forgetting that water 
would take the gloss from my new red morocco shoes, I 
picked my way along, and laying hold of my fine gentleman 
in limbo, succeeded in burying him, wet face and all, in the 
folds of my white apron! But such an uneasy prisoner! 
More than one frightened toss did he get into the grass, and 
then I had an infinite deal of trouble to secure him again. 
His gratitude was very like that of human's, when you do 
them unasked service 



MY FIRST GRIEF. 137 

When I had reached a cool, shaded, deep spot, far adown, 
where the spotted alders lean, like so many self-enamored 
narcissuses, over the ripple-faced mirror, I dropped my apron, 
and let go my prize. Ah ! he was grateful then ! He must 
have been ! How he dived, and sprang to the surface, and 
spread out his little wings of dark-ribbed gossamer, and 
frisked about, keeping all the time a cool, thin sheet of sil- 
ver between his back and the sun-sick air! I loved that 
pretty fish, for I had been kind to it ; and I thought it would 
love me, too, and stay there, and be a play-fellow for me ; so 
I went every day and watched for it, and watched until my 
little eyes ached ; but I never saw it again. That was my 
first grief; what is there in years to make a heart ache 
heavier ? That first will be longer remembered than the last 
I dare say. 

VOL. II. 12* 



THE MIGNIONETTE 



I KNOW there is an angel in some bosoms — an angel 
which the Redeemer leaves to guard his own peculiar jewels 
— which will touch most delicately the keys of love and 
truthfulness, whatever nets the world without may be weav- 
ing to cripple its pure wings. But, in general, we are imita- 
tive creatures, and we copy from our surroundings. We 
catch the tricks of the leaves, and the breezes, and the flower- 
buds, when we make our homes among them ; and, when 
we congregate on hot pavements, the air we breathe is sear- 
ing to the spirit, however you may tell us it affects the spirit's 
casket. It is belter to be a " God-make" than a " man-make," 
as the little deaf mute, Jack, would say; and men will re- 
fashion God's doings, even in our own natures, if we do not 
prevent them. For this reason, it seems to me not only 
peculiarly silly, but wicked; to transplant the early spring 
violet from the brook-side to your conservatory. A gay, 
fashionable man, with a touch of poetry, and more of worldli- 
ness about him, attempted it a few years ago ; but he spoiled 
his flower. Poor Minna Gray! She was a pure, gentle 
creature ; but when she was removed from the influences of 
home, with so much to attract, so much to wonder at and 
bewilder, was it strange that her young heart should grow 
stagnant to any but the thrilling touch of the magic world 
that accorded so well with her dreams of fairy-land ? No ; 
if the world-weary man would have the wild violet in its fra- 
grance, and freshness, and purity, he must go and live beside 
it ; It is well worth the sacrifice, and will droop in any other 
soil. We have a strange notion in this strange world, of 
fashioning pure things to our own hands, instead of fashion- 
ing ourselves to them. 



i\ 



TUE MIGNIONETTE. 



139 



In the days when all the moveless dumb things on the 
earth talked and walked about, a Thistle grew down in the 
corner of a neglected garden, in the midst of other Thistles, all 
proud of their purple blossoms and brave defences. But 
there was one thing about the porcupine-like armor of the 
Thistle family, which did not quite please this gallant 
knight. They were all bristling with prickles ; and they 
could not draw near each other with the loving confidence 
displayed by the little bed of Mignionette close by ; so, in 
the midst of kindred and friends, the Thistle felt alone. Per- 
haps, if he had cast off his own armor, and wheedled from the 
air some of the sweetness it had rifled from his fragrant neigh- 
bors, the others might have imitated him ; but, instead of 
that, like many a poet of the present day, he stood up in all 
his exclusiveness ; and, from dawn to dew-fall, sighed for 
companionship. At last he began to throw loving glances 
towards the Mignionette ; and one little, fragrant, dewy blos- 
som saw him, and blushed, hiding her meek head behind her 
companions. From that day the knight resolved to woo the 
little trembler, and fashion her beautiful spirit for his own 
happiness. " She shall grow close beside me," he said to 
himself; "her roots shall twine with mine down in the dark 
earth, and her slender, delicate stem I will support and train 
upwards, and she will cling lovingly to me forever." So he 
expended a few more tender glances, and sent some gallant 
speeches by the little wind-messengers ; and at last pretty 
Mignon slept from the midst of her sisters, and laid her fra- 
grant head on the bosom of her mettlesome wooer. For a 
little time, whose life so bright as that of Knight Thistle ? 
But sometimes the sharp thorns in his armor wounded his 
gentle bride, and then came tears and chidings ; sometimes, 
when he bent his head to touch her bright lip, there seemed 
a strong scent of the Thistle in her breath, instead of the fra- 
grance which had made the whole garden rich ; and some- 
times, at midnight, when the wind was a little noisier than 
usual, and the tall Thistle-heads hissed a response, he fan- 
cied that another hiss arose close beside him, and he did not 



140 THE MIGNIONETTE. 

love his Mignon more for growing so like himself. Finally, 
after a year or two had passed, the Thistle found, to his dis- 
may, that the roots of the Mignionette were so interwoven 
with those of her stout neighbors, that they were in no wise 
distinguishable ; then thorns grew from her sides, and wounded 
as his had done ; she put a purple crown upon her head, and 
became a Thistle. It was not very strange, for she had lain 
upon his heart, and its throbbings were not good for her ; she 
had listened to his whispers, and in them had forgotten the 
pure, sweet converse of her sisters, though her fainting 
spirit longed for it ; and she had breathed the air that thq 
Thistles breathed, until her whole nature was contaminated. 

But from that day to this, the whole family of Thistles 
(which has since become very numerous, and does not 
always wear the purple) declare the modest little Mignionette 
to be no purer, no gentler, no sweeter or more loving than 
themselves ; and they firmly believe that there are no such 
virtues as these in the wide world, and those who seem most 
to practise them, are only the most adroit deceivers. 

Ah ! pretty Mignionettes, sweet Violets, bright Minna 
Grays; beware of the world — nestle in your seclusion — 
guard well your simple, trustful hearts; your innocence is no 
match for the strong continual influence which always enters 
by the purest door of your natures to desecrate your trea- 
Bures. 



141 



MINISTERING ANGELS 

Mother, has the dove that nestled 

Lovingly upon thy breast, 
Folded up its little pinion, 

And in darkness gone to rest? 
Nay ; the grave is dark and dreary. 

But the lost one is not there ; 
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper, 

Floating on the ambient air ? 
It is near thee, gentle mother, 

Near thee at the evening hour ; 
Its soft kiss is in the zephyr. 

It looks up from every flower. 
And when, Nighi's dark shadows fleeing 

Low thou bendest thee in prayer, 
And thy heart feels nearest heaven. 

Then thy angel babe is there. 

Maiden, has thy noble brother. 

On whose manly form thine eye 
Loved full oft in pride to linger, 

On whose heart thou couldst rely, 
Though all other hearts deceived thee, 

All proved hollow, earth grew drear, 
Whose protection, ever o'er thee, 

Hid thee from the cold world's sneer,— 
Has he left thee here to struggle, 

All unaided on thy way ? 
Nay ; he still can guide and guard thee, 

Still thy faltering steps can stay : 
Still, when danger hovers o'er thee, 

He than danger is more near ; 



142 MINISTERING ANGELS. 

When in grief thou 'st none to pity. 
He, the sainted, marlis each tear. 

Lover, is the light extinguished, 

Of the gem that, in thy heart 
Hidden deeply, to thy being 

All its sunshine could impart ? 
Look above ! *t is burning brighter 

Than the very stars in heaven ; 
And to light thy dangerous pathway 

All its new-found glory 's given. 
With the sons of earth commingling, 

Thou the loved one mayst forget ; 
Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving. 

May have power to win thee yet ; 
But e'en then that guardian spirit 

Oft will whisper in thine ear. 
And in silence, and at midnight. 

Thou wilt know she hovers near. 

Orphan, thou most sorely stricken 

Of the mourners thronging earth, 
Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine. 

Sadness mingles with thy mirth. 
Yet, although that gentle bosom. 

Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
Now is cold, thy mother's spirit 

Cannot rest among the dead. 
Still her watchful eye is o'er thee 

Through the day, and still at night 
Hers the eye that guards thy slumber, 

Making thy young dreams so bright. 
O ! the friends, the friends we 've cherished 

How we weep to see them die ! 
All unthinking they 're the angels 

That will guide us to the sky ! 



143 



THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 

"Would you believe it, "Bel" — that there is poetry in a 
woodpile — genuine, unmitigated poetry, dipped up from the 
very heart of Helicon ? Would you believe it ? Well, there 
is ; and, what is better still, it is not a moth born of the sun- 
shine ; but a genuine bird of Parnassus, dashing rain-diamonds 
from its wings, and weaving rainbows, and turning rain-clouds 
into — whatever you choose — the friar's cowl and gown, or 
the ermine and velvet of St. James, as your taste suggests. 
But it is a Niobe ; or rather a Venus bathing in an upper sea ; 
for the muse of the woodpile, you must know, is a rain-divin- 
ity. To illustrate. We have had a week — 0, such a week ! 
If I possessed any mechanical skill it would have made a 
Noah of me, six dap ago. Drizzle, drizzle ! patter, patter ! 
from darkness to darkness ; for the day is one continued twi- 
light, the damp light coming in and going out at its usual 
hours, as though it acted only from a sense of duty — sick 
and dizzy enough, meanwhile, to prefer being alone. The 
night, too — but nights never hang heavily on my hands, 
thanks to the little people from Dreamland. 

Did you ever spend a rainy day in the country, " Bel ?" 
You will say, yes ; for now I have asked, I recollect one or 
two when you were with us. But Walter was here then ; 
so, of course, your sun shone. Once imagine those rainy 
days without a lover, " Bella ;" and then think of seven of 
them all in a row, so near alike that you cannot distinguish 
one from its twin ; and you must keep an almanac in your 
hand to prove to yourself that yesterday has not come back 
again to cheat you into living a stale day. By the way, what 
a fresh life we have of it ; forever using new time, moments 
just coined from stray fragments of eternity, soiled by nobody's 
breath, and thrown by as soon as tarnished or embalmed by 



44 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-BIAKEK. 

ours. Not quite thrown by, either. They are following after 
us, a line of strange things strangely broidered over, to buoy 
us heavenward, like the tail of a kite, or drag us down, a chain 
of lead. " Revenons a nos moutons." 

The woodpile. There it stands, with the water drip, drip- 
ping from it — all motionless, and meek as Mooly "midway 
in the marshy pool;" (you admire musical sounds, "Bel;" 
and there is alliteration for you, worthy of the fair Laura 
Matilda herself.) Drip ! drip ! there 's something chiding in 
that woodpile — a dumb reverence for what is, which makes 
me ashamed of wi'shing for the ninety-ninth time, as I was on 
the point of doing, that the rain '^tvould be over and gone." 
Resigned to the decrees of Providence! 0, it z's a hard thing, 
" Bel." Think of our hopes, as they are first formed, with a 
heart-throb in every tiny bud ; then think of them as they 
begin to expand, blushing, brightening, bursting out from the 
envious green, fresh and glorious — our gay, gorgeous hopes; 
think of them in their glad beauty, and watch the coming 
of the rain-storm. How they strive to stand, poor perishable 
things ! How they wave, and quiver, and wrestle ! and then 
see their bright petals swept downward and scattered, gem- 
ming the wet ground, before one sun-ray had given them a 
baptismal kiss. Lost before named ! Poor hopes ! Pitiable 
hopers ! 

Not poetry, did you say? Well, it is philosophy, then, 
and I am by no means sure that there is the difference of a 
maple and an elm stick between the two. I am inclined to 
believe that the same divinity presides over both. To be 
sure, poetry shows the dimpled foot, mantled only by the hem 
of a lady's robe ; while philosophy strides off in buskin and 
hosen ; but you may see them step behind the scenes at any 
moment, and exchange attire. 

I have gained quite an affection for that Avoodpile, since I 
have had nothing else to look at ; and it went to my heart 
this morning to have a heavy armful transferred to my room, 
for the purpose of correcting the dampness of the atmosphere. 
I felt as though committing a kind of sacrilege ; worse still. 



THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 145 

burning my monitor, because perhaps its teachings chid me. 
And then, when the wild flames were all raving around it, 
how could I help, " Bel ; " unclasping a clasp, and looking 
into the morrow of a little trembler, who would fain cling 
a life-long to the present ? My life has been one track of 
roses ; I have imbibed their freshness, and drunk their per- 
fume ; my smiles have been heart-born, and every tear has 
had a rainbow in it. I have led a happy, happy life, " Bel" 
— thank God ! who has granted every blessing to a hoping 
mother's prayers. But a wiser than the hoping has said, " If 
a man live many years, and rejoice in them all, yet let him 
remember the days of darkness ; for they shall be many." 
Not entire darkness, " Bel ; " for I know of stars that will al- 
ways sparkle, of lamps that will always burn ; but still there 
are days of trial awaiting me — perhaps in the distance, per- 
haps very near, even at the door. I cannot die till my lip 
has pressed the bitter. Heaven help me, then ! and not me 
alone, but all of us. 

I wish you could sit by me this morning, and see my fire 
burn. There is John Rogers himself, with his picket fence 
of little people, to keep him from running away, just as he 
stands in the primer ; and there is the veritable hero, Jack- 
the-giant-killer, if I am to judge by the enormous club he 
carries, three times the size of himself; and there — there, as 
I live, is your oa\ti Broadway, the genuine article, the shops 
all tricked out in finery, and the passers-by in the same way 
bedizened — all walking show-cases. And now the fire-scene 
changes, and I look into a magnificent palace, — my foot is 
aching just to press that gorgeous carpet, and — there, a stick 
has rolled down upon it, and my palace is in the condition of 
many another one that I have builded. That big stick of 
maple seems to me like a martyr, suffering for opinion's sate. 
Certainly it is the very stick that I saw yesterday turning its 
bleached face heavenward with a submissiveness which had 
no sigh in it; and, with its last year's green for a text, it 
preached mc a long sermon. It was not a very agreeable one, 
however. Shall I tell you a few things it wrote on my heart « 

VOL. n. 13 



146 THE RAIN A TIIOUGHT-MAKEK. J 

I never afflicted myself much at the decay of empires— 
never gave half as many tears to the downfall of all the mighty 
mourning places of the old world combined, as I shed over the 
grave I dug in childhood for a poor broken-winged robin I 
bad striven to win back to life. My heart is not big enough 
for that kind of sympathy ; and there is no use in trying to 
convince me that there is a place in the world of quite as 
much consequence as Alderbrook. If I should wake some of 
these mornings, and find the houses all turned into stacks of 
chimneys, (we have feAV Grecian pillars, and such like un- 
necessaries, so our ruins would not be very romantic,) and the 
direction of the only nice street we have, such a disputable 
thing that the antiquarians of Crow-hill would wrangle about 
it forever after ; I say, if I should awake and find changes 
like these, I should probably weep a few such tears as have, 
during the lapse of centuries, bathed the ruins that claim the 
world for mourners. But, after all, it would be nothing in 
comparison with seeing a new grave dug over the white stile 
yonder, among the cypresses. The decay of life, the extin- 
guishing of the lamp lighted by the hand of God, — 0, there 
is something in that which I can feel ! I do not know what 
kind of life there was in that maple-tree last summer — how 
high, how glorious, how much like this which is now swel- 
ling in my veins and bubbling at my heart — but I do 
know that there was life in it. And life, of whatever kind, is 
a mysterious, a fearfully m^ysterious thing. But it is gone 
now ; and the living tree, which gloried in the sunlight, and 
wrestled with the winds of heaven — that had veins and arte- 
ries, through which the life-current wandered as through mine, 
is degraded to the impassiveness of the stone — below the stone 
in its early perishableness, as the human frame is below that 
in a more revolting dissolution. Sometimes I fancy, as the 
stick lies smouldering in that crust of gray ashes, that the 
principle of life has not yet departed from it ; for, the unwil- 
ling yielding to the flame, the occasional brightening up, as 
though a hoping soul looked through it, the half-mirthful 
crackle, and the low, mournful song, like its own requiem, all 



THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 147 

eeem to speak of an inner life, which the axe of the woodman 
failed to reach. I observe, too, as I watch it, fragments 
crumbling back into ashes ; while, above, floats oft' a blue 
wreath, waving and curling — winging its way heavenward 
with all the gladness of an emancipated spirit. Will you be- 
lieve with me, *' Bella," that this is the same spirit which ani- 
mated the living leaves of the maple tree, when they coquet- 
ted with the summer sun-light, and folded the wind genii in 
their green arms, and whispered, with their fresh lips, of 
things, which, I suppose, the birds know more about than we. 
Why should it not be ? I have no objection to the Indian's plan 
of taking dogs, and horses, and other lovable things, to hea- 
ven ; though 1 am not sure that I should like to see him chase 
the " spotted Fomen," or put a veto on the flourish of bright 
wings ; but I think all these will be a study for us there. Our 
natures have become contracted in this cramped-up breathing- 
place, where we are hustled about, and jostled against each 
other, till self-protection — self, seZ/'-everything — is the one 
j chord vibrating to our every breath. We have arranged a 
book of nature, and put ourselves in as a frontispiece ; {the 
picture — other living things, only the border;) but the whole 
may be reversed in heaven. 

" Just as short of reason he may fall, 

Who thinks all made for one, as one for all." 

And what egotism to believe our own the only deathless 
spirits to pass from this bright earth to a brighter Paradise .' 
Ourselves alone gifted with the true life — all things else 
cursed with a mockery, a semblance, like the iris-hued bubble 
to the sun. 

But, "Bell," I do hope this maple stick is as insensible as it 
seemed on the wood-pile yesterday ; for I have no great fancy 
for playing the executioner, though it did teach me an ugly 
lesson. What that lesson was, I have only hinted at yet ; it 
is scarce a thing to repeat to one so bright and joyous as you 
are. Perhaps you never think of the dark phantoms that 
trouble the existence of other mortals — but O, " Bell," death 
is a thing to dread ! And then it is such an ever-present thing , 



148 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 

we are so reminded of it every moment of our lives ! There 
is no hour so sacred, no place so secure, but we cast a look 
over the shoulder at the fearful shape following us. At dawn 
and at dew-fall, at noon-tide blaze, and in the star broidered 
midnight, it is all the same. 

When day is dying in the west, 

Each flickering ray of crimson light, 
The sky, in gold and purple dressed, 

The cloud, with glory all bedight, 

And every shade that ushers night, 
And each cool breeze that comes to weave 
Its dampness with my curls — all leave 
A lesson sad. 

Last night I plucked a half-shut flower, 

Which blushed and nodded on its stem; 
A thing to grace a Peri's bower; 

It seemed to me some priceless gem, 

Dropped from an angel's diadem ; 
But soon the blossom drooping lay, 
And, as it withered, seemed to say. 

We 're passing all ! 

I loved a fair-haired, gentle boy, 

(A bud of brightness — ah, too rare !) 
I loved him, and I saw with joy ;^ 

Heaven's purity all centred there ; 

But he went up, that heaven to share ; 
And, as his spirit from him stole. 
His last look graved upon my soul. 

Learn thus to die ! 

I 've seen the star that glowed in heaven. 
When other stars seemed half asleep, 

As though from its proud station driven, 
Go rushing down the azure steep. 
Through space unmeasured, dark, and deep j 

And, as it vanished far in night, 

I read by its departing light. 

Thus perish all .' 

I 've, in its dotage, seen the year. 

Worn out and weary, struggling on, 
Till falling prostrate on its bier. 

Time marked another cycle gone ; 

And as I beard the dying moan. 



THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 149 

Upon my trembling heart, there fell 
The awful words, as by a spell, 

Death — death to all ! 

They come on every breath of air, 

Which siglis its feeble life away ; 
They 're vhispered by each blossom fair, 

Which folds a lid at close of day ; 

There 's nought of earth, or sad or gay, 
There 's nought below the star-lit skies, 
13ut leaves one lesson as it flies — 

Thou too must die! 

And numberless tliose silvery chords, 

Dissevered by the spoiler's hand, 
But each in breaking still affords 

A tone to say we all are banned ; 

And on each brow by death-damps spanned. 
The pall, the slowly moving hearse, 
Is traced the burden of my verse, — 

Death — death to man ! 

Ah ! the strong, the mighty may well turn pale, and quake, 
and shrivel, and mewl, even as an infant in its swaddlings, 
with that skeleton finger stealthily winding itself among the 
warm, bloodful veins, turning them to ice as it goes. With 
that dark sovereign of a darksome hour looking into his eyes 
and counting through these faithful mirrors the pulsations of 
the heart below ; scattering, one by one, the sands from his 
; glass, and stealing, drop by drop, the life from its fountain, the 
! brave, strong-souled man may measure courage with the timid 
I maiden, and never blush to find an equal in heroism. To 
I have those Avho have loved, caressed, and watched over us 
i with sleepless attention, turn loathingly from us and hustle us 
I into the earth, among the stones and festering germs of poi- 
sonous weeds, with the frozen clods upon our bosoms, to 
moulder in darkness and gloom, to be trod upon and forgotten ; 
while beautiful beings that we could love, 0, so dearly ! are 
flitting above us; and the light is glancing ; and birds, drunk 
Avith joyousness, wheeling and careering in the sunbeam ; and 
all the world going on merrily, as when our hearts went with 
it — Oh ! what has man's courage, man's strength, man's stent 
self-control, to offer against such an overwhelming certainty ! 
VOL. II. 13* 



150 THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 

There is so much in this dear, beautiful world, too, for the 
heart to cling to ! What is there in the sad catalogue of 
human suffering like wrenching away 

That holy link which first 

Within the soul's rich mine was moulded ; 

When life awoke, and love's pure wing 

Another nestling close enfolded ? j 

We turn to the hearth-stone in the hour of pain, and nestle 
back upon a mother's bosom ; and we say, we cannot leave it 
— Ave cannot die ! A father's proud eye is on us — ambition 
blossoms in our hearts beneath it ; and then, how stiflingly 
steal over us thoughts of the coffin and the grave ! How can 
we die in the dew of our morning, with all those glowing vis- 
ions unrealized ! How can we pass in age, when the thousand 
chains which we have been our life-long forging, are all 
linked to the bright, beautiful things here, which we can but 
love ! Father in heaven, teach me trust in Thee ! As 
these chords, which Thou hast strung, lose tone, and canker 
against thy cunning workmanship, gather them into thine own 
hand, and attune them anew to accord with the harps of 
angels. Teach me trust in Thee ; that when the cofRn-lid 
shuts out the sunshine, and the green-bladed grass springs 
between my breast and the feet of the living, I may still be in 
the midst of light, and joy, and love — love measureless as 
eternity. 

I had quite forgotten that I was \vriting a letter, " Bel," and 
have jotted doAvn the thoughts as they came tumbling to the 
point of my pen, with a merciless lack of consideration for 
you, who are probably basking in the mirth-giving brightness 
of a sunny morning. But by this you will discover that a 
rainy day in the country is not without its uses. It gives us 
thinking- time, and that lengthens our lives ; — none live so 
fast and have so few way-marks as the butterflies. Besides, 
thought is the father of action — so, to that great sheet of mist, 
and the dripping rain, and the beaded grass, and the streets, 
many a good deed may owe its parentage. But now my stick 
of maple is nearly charred, and my eyes are trying to hide 



THE RAIN A THOUGHT-MAKER. 151 

themselves behind pairs of fringes which are nearing each 
other for an embrace. I will to sleep, " Bel," with a looking- 
glass in the window, to give me intelligence of the first strip 
of blue that disengages itself from the prisoning clouds. 
Adieu, my bright cousin ! All good attend you, and no more 
rain visit New York than may be needed as a thought-maker. 



152 



GENIUS. 

There is a melancholy pleasure in turning over the records 
of genius, and familiarizing ourselves with the secret workings 
of those minds that have, from time to time, made memorable 
the ages in which they lived, and ennobled the several na- 
tions which gave them birth. But it is not the indulgence of 
this feeling which makes such a study peculiarly profitable to 
us : from these records we may learn much of the philosophy 
of the human mind in its most luxurious developments. 
Genius seems to be confined to no soil, no government, no 
age or nation, and no rank in society. When men lived in 
wandering tribes, and could boast no literature, the bright 
flame burned among them, although wild and often deadly its 
ray ; and the foot of oppression, which crushes all else, has 
failed to extinguish it. Hence it has rashly been inferred 
that this peculiar gift, possessed by the favored few, may be 
perfected without any exertion on their part, and is subject to 
none of the rules which in all other cases govern intellect ; 
but that, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, it must burst forth 
when and where it will, and be burned up in the blaze of its 
own glory, leaving but the halo of its former brightness 
upon the historic page. This inference, however, is alike 
erroneous and dangerous. Though genius be an unsought 
gift, a peculiar emanation from the Divine Mind, it was not 
originally intended as a glorious curse, to crush the spirit 
which it elevates. Perchance the pent-up stream within the 
soul must find an avenue ; but he who bears the gift may 
choose that avenue, — may direct, control and divert; he may 
scatter the living waters on a thousand objects, or pour their 
whole force upon one ; he may calm and purify them, by this 
means rendering them none the less deep, or he may allow 



GENIUS. 153 

them to dash and foam until, however they sparkle, ihe dark 
sediments of vice and misery thus made to mingle, may be 
found in every gem. 

Let us turn to the oft-quoted names of Byron and Burns 
-names that can scarcely be mentioned by the admirers of 
genius without a thrill of pain. To the poor ploughman on 
the banks of the Doon was sent the glorious talisman, and 
Avith it he unlocked the portals of nature, and read truths even 
in the flower overturned by his ploughshare, unseen by com- 
mcfii eyes. But mark his veering course ; think of his (com- 
paratively) wasted energies. He could love the wild flowers 
in the braes and the sunlight on the banks of his " bonny 
Doon ;" he could, at least at one time, smile at his lowly lot ; 
and he ever contended against fortune with a strong and 
fearless hand. But while the polished society of Edinburgh 
owned his po\(fer, and he swayed the hearts of lads and lass- 
es of his own degree at will, he could not control hivnelf ; 
and many of those light songs, which are now on gladsome 
lips, might, could we enter into the secrets of the poor bard, 
be but the sad way-marks of the aching heart, as it grew each 
day heavier till it sank into the grave. Burns, the light- 
hearted lover of his " Highland Mary," and Burns, the care- 
worn exciseman, were very different persons; but neither 
outward circumstances nor the genius that characterized both 
alike, Avas the cause. The world has been blamed in his case ; 
but the world, after it first noticed, could have done nothing 
to save. The poet, had he known his moral strength and 
cared to exert it, could have saved himself, as his superiority 
to many of the foibles and prejudices of human nature and 
his manly independence on many occasions evinced. 

Byron, like his own archangel ruined guiding a fallen son 
of clay in his search after mysteries, has delved among hidden 
treasures and spread before us the richest gems of Helicon ; 
but scarce one of these but is dark in its glory, and, although 
burning with all the fire of heaven-born poesy, sends forth a 
mingled and dangerous ray. But had a mother whispered 
her pious counsels in his ear in boyhood ; had a friendly finger 



154 GENIUS. 

pointed out a nobler revenge when that first cutting satire was 
penned • and had a better, a holier sentiment than the mean 
passion of revenge urged him on to action and governed his 
after aspirations, think you that the archangel of earth would 
have stood less glorious? No. Byron's spirit had a self- 
rectifying power, and he could have used it, but he did not; 
and, although he has well won the laurel, a poison more bit- 
ter than death is dropping from every leaf. 

It was not an ungrateful public that spread the death-couch 
of Savage in a debtor's prison, or dug the suicidal grave* of 
" Bristol's wondrous boy." They were themselves ungrate- 
ful ; they guarded not well the gift they bore, and fell victims 
to their own misdirected powers. 

The common mind, never tempted, may wonder at the way- 
wardness of genius and despise the weakness of its possessor ; 
and the generous one that sees the struggle and mourns the 
wreck, may pity and apologize ; and both are in some degree 
right. While we admire and pity, we must wonder at the 
weakness of the strength that, subduing all else, failed beneath 
its own weight. We know that the gifted ones of earth often 
have stronger passions, more irresistible wills, and quicker ' 
and more dangerous impulses than other men ; and for this 
very reason should they cultivate more assiduously the noble 
powers by which these passions and impulses are governed. 
Each individual possessas them ; but they must be cultivated. 

It is our conception of the mysteries of this gift which leads 
us to look back with such peculiar interest upon the infancy 
of a man of genius, expecting there to discover at least some 
flashes of the divine ray which lighted up his after life. The 
dusty memories of nurses and village oracles are ransacked 
for anecdotes, which oftentimes neither the additions sug- 
gested by pride and partial affection, nor the transforming 
medium of the past, through which they are viewed, can swell 
into anything like superiority to the sayings and doings of 
other children. He who will watch an intelligent child 
through one day, will be astonished at the bright flashes of 
untaught intellect which, could they be abstracted from the 



6EN1US. 155 

childish notions in which they are almost entirely buried, 
would be thought, by any but him who found them in such 
amusing vicinity, the sure precursors of greatness. 

True, real genius often shows itself in childhood ; but that 
it always does, or that such a development is desirable, may be 
seriously questioned. The child who writes verses at six, or 
gives other indications of a genius surpassing his years, may 
be wondered at and admired as a prodigy ; but the parent 
ought to tremble to observe the premature fruit bursting 
through the petals of the not yet unfolded bud. There is an 
evidence of disease in this, which, in one way or another, 
almost always proves fatal. This unnatural power wears out 
itself or the frame of its possessor ; either the mind or the 
body must fail under such a rapid development. 

The village pedagogue in his old age may look about him 
wonderingly ; for it is not unlikely that the least promising of 
all his flock takes the highest stand, while his bright, ever- 
ready favorite, that he was sure would become a great man, 
does not rise above mediocrity. There is nothing strange or 
capricious in this. It is the sure result of natural causes, and 
has its counterpart in all the works of nature — even in the 
human frame. Rapid growth produces weakness in the bones 
and sinews ; and, in some cases, this growth has been so rapid 
as to become an actual disease, and carry its victim to the 
grave. Many are the instances of intellectual growth so 
rapid as to weaken the mind and sink it even below medioc- 
rity, or, on the other hand, to produce premature death. For 
examples of this last result we need not go to the tombs of 
the early dead in the old world, nor is it necessary to visit 
the banks of Saranac, where drooped the fairest buds that 
ever shed the fragrance of heaven upon earth. We can find 
them in our own midst. Many are the gifted little beings, 
who, after basking in the sunshine and rejoicing among the 
flowers for a few short summers, pass away all unknown to 
the world — leavnng only the frail memorials of their early 
genius to soothe, yet sadden even in the moment of soothing, 
the hearts that cherished them 



156 GENIUS. 

It would be going too far to censure those who have the 
guidance of such minds ; but it would save worlds of disap- 
pointment, did they know that such promises are deceitful 
and deserving of but little confidence. And sometimes, 
doubtless, the poor victim might be saved years of pain and 
disease, and, perchance, be spared to the world through a 
long life, were not the powers of the mind forced by unnatural 
means to expand too soon — before either the mind or body 
had acquired the strength and hardiness necessary to its own 
healthy existence. Many have seen this evil, and endeavored 
to remedy it by checking such unnatural growth ; but this is 
perhaps the most fatal error that could be committed. The 
mind, when it first becomes conscious of its own capabilities, 
puts no limits to them, and will only be urged onward by each 
barrier thrown in its way ; but a judicious hand may direct 
its course, calm its turbulence, soothe its sensitiveness, and 
teach it to be its own supporter, without endangering in the 
least degree its freshness and originality. The power of con- 
trolling its own impulses does not render a nature tame; but 
as it is necessary to every person, how much more so to him 
who has a strong, high spirit, that cannot be subdued by oth- 
ers ; that, spurning the control of him who should be its mas. 
ter, OA'er-masters him, and is left unprotected. 



157 



LILIAS FANE. 

About five miles from Alderbrook there is a handsome red 
school-house, with a portico in front, shaded by an immense 
butternut ; white window-shutters, to keep out rogues at night, 
but of no use at all during the day ; and a handsome cupola, 
in Avhich is a bell of sufficient power to be heard, particularly 
on still days, all over the district. This specimen of architec- 
ture, being intended to serve the double purpose of church and 
school-house, is the pride of the little community ; and, indeed, 
it well may be, for there is not its equal in the whole country 
round. When the school-house was first built, the neighbors 
all resolved to support a " first-rate school ;" and, for many 
years, they employed teachers who came well recommended, 
and claimed a large salary. Squire Mason said no pains were 
spared, — everything was done that man could do ; yet, some- 
how, no teacher seemed to give general satisfaction ; and so 
many left, either in indignation or disgrace, that " the Mason 
school" gained the reputation of being the most ungovernable 
in the county. If truth must be told, this was not Avithoul 
reason; for people who build new school-houses must, of course, 
listen to new doctrines, and most of the families in " the Mason 
district "had imbibed somewhat extensively the notions preva- 
lent among reformers of the present day, who think that Sol- 
omon was only joking when he recommended the rod. At 
last, after some renegade youngsters had summarily dismissed, 
with a broken head, a dark, square-shouldered, piratical look- 
ing man, who, in a fit of desperation, had been chosen for his 
enormous strength, people became quite discouraged, and the 
principal men of the district, old Farmer Westborn, Deacon 
Martin, and Squire Mason, called a meeting to discnss affairs. 
Some proposed whipping all the boys round, and commencing 

VOL. II. 14 



15S LILIAS FANE. 

a new school ; others thought it best to shut up the housft 
entirely, and set the young rebels to cutting wood; while 
Deacon Martin was of the opinion that if some of the " worst 
ones" could be kept at home, there would be no difficulty 
with the rest. Upon this hint others spake ; and the meeting 
at last decided on obtaining a female teacher to take charge 
of the little ones, the " big boys " being entirely voted out. 
Squire Mason himself had a son who was considered a 
" rollicking blade," up to all sorts of mischief; -id of the half- 
dozen shock-headed Westborns, there was not one that had 
failed to give the former master blow for blow. Affairs were, 
however, now to assume a calmer aspect ; and the meeting 
proceeded forthwith to appoint a school-committee, consisting 
of Deacon Martin, who had no children of his own, and was 
consequently expected to take a great interest in those of his 
neighbors ; Mr. Fielding, a quiet bachelor of thirty-five or 
thereabout; and one or two others, who were selected for the 
sake of making the numbers strong, and not for anything 
that they were expected to do. The principal duty of the acU 
ing part of the committee was to obtain a teacher ; but they 
were also to manage all other affairs thereunto pertaining. 

Luckily, a lady had been recommended to Deacon Martin, 
during the preceding autumn, as a perfect prodigy ; and, as 
our school-committee men were quiet sort of people, who did 
not like to make unnecessary trouble, a letter, superscribed 
" Miss Lilias Fane" was thrown into the post-office box, which, 
in due time, brought as favorable an answer as could be 
desired. 

It was a cold, stormy morning in December, when the pub- 
lic stage-coach set down the new schoolmistress at the door 
of Deacon Martin's house. A bundle of cloaks ana blankets 
rolled from the opened door into the hands of the good deacon, 
who Avas obliged to support, indeed almost to carry, an invis- 
ible form into the house, where his good dame stood ready to 
divest it of all unnecessary incumbrances. At first, a large 
blanket was removed, then muff and cloak, and yet shawl, 
nood, and veil remained ; and Mrs. Martin could not help 



LILIAS FANE. 159 

conjecturing how precious must be the nut which was blessed 
with so mucli shell. The task of untying- strings and remov- 
ing pins being accomplished, a volume of flaxen ringlets 
descended over a pair of tiny white shoulders, and a soft blue 
eye stole timidly from its silken ambush up to the face of Mrs. 
Martin ; but meeting no sympathy there, it retreated behind 
the drooping lid ; and little Miss Fane, blushing up to the 
pretty flaxen waves that just shaded her forehead, smiled, and 
courtsied, and then crouched by the blazing fire like a petted 
kitten. Mrs. Martin retreated involuntarily; and the deacon 
parted his lips, drew up his eye-brows, and shrugged his 
shoulders, between astonishment and contempt. What ! that 
child assume the duties and responsibilities of a school teacher 
and, above all, in such a school ! Why, Susan Harman could 
put her out of the door with one hand, and the very littlest boy 
overmaster her. There sat the new schoolmistress, and there 
stood the deacon and his dame, gazing at her, perfectly speech- 
less, when Mr. Fielding drove up to the door ; it being con- 
sidered his especial duty to introduce new teachers, and 
particularly lady teachers, to the school-house. Now the 
bachelor had some very fine notions of tall, elegant figures, 
and dignified manners ; indeed, he had a rule for everything, 
stepping, looking, and even thinking ; and, consequently, he 
was taken quite by surprise when his eye first lighted on the 
unpretending little school-mistress. Her figure was slight, and 
exceedingly fragile, and her face the very perfection of infan- 
tile sweetness. This was all that Mr. Fielding had an oppor- 
tunity to observe, as she stood before him in graceful confusion, 
replying to his very formal salutation, and answering his still 
more formal questions about the weather, the state of the roads, 
and the time of her arrival. The bachelor, however, was con- 
fident that Miss Fane was a very incompetent school-teacher ; 
and Miss Fane was quite as confident that the bachelor was 
a very incompetent beau. First, he gave her what the little 
lady considered an impertinent stare, as a school-committee- 
man has a right to do ; then he made a great many common 
place remarks, as a man that wishes to appear very dignified 



160 LILIAS FANE. 

Avill do ; and then he desired to see Deacon Martin in private, 
as a man when he wishes to let you know that he is about to 
discuss your character should do. Poor Lilias Fane ! with 
all her simplicity she was not deficient in discernment, and 
she felt piqued at the manners of the people, particularly Mr. 
Fielding, whose real superiority she instantly detected, despite 
of the clumsy awkwardness behind which he managed to hide 
himself. So, tossing back her sunny curls, and calling for 
hood and shawl, in spite of all Mrs. Martin's entreaties to the 
contrary, she was half-way to the school-house before the gen- 
tlemen decided that they could do nothing less than give her 
a trial. It was with the utmost surprise that the bachelor 
heard of the flight of his bonny bird ; for he was the greatest 
man in the district, and every one was but too much delighted 
to gain his notice. He owned a fine cottage close by the Maple 
Grove, with beautiful grounds about it, and every elegance 
that wealth could command and taste dictate within ; and there 
he resided, with his mother and a little nephew, in very envi- 
able quiet. It was evident that his knowledge of the world 
was thorough, and he had, probably, at some period of his life, 
taken a part in its tumult; but the retirement of private life 
best suited him, and he had for several years buried the most 
perfect specimen of a gentleman of the old school extant among 
the rural luxuries of Grove Cottage. Here, however, none of 
the punctilios, on which he set so high a value, were omitted, 
for he was too thoroughly a gentleman to throw aside the 
character when behind the scenes ; and all honored him for 
his strict integrity, as weU as intellectual superiority. Mr. 
Fielding had not a particle of misanthropy in his composition ; 
so, notwithstanding a secret touch of exclusive feeling, arising 
probably from a consciousness of possessing but little in com- 
mon with those around him, he mingled with the people of 
the neighborhood as though nothing but a certain degree of 
coldness and personal dignity prevented him from being on a 
perfect equality with them ; and he exhibited so much tea 
interest in all that concerned their welfare, that he possessed 
their entire confidence. 



LILIAS FANE. 161 

When Mr. Fielding learned that the little lady had gone 
away alone, he looked surprised ; but, recollecting how bashful 
she had appeared when standing in his august presence, he 
at once saw the matter in a more pleasing light ; so, calling 
on Deacon Martin to bestow his burly corpus in the seat 
intended for pretty Lilias Fane, the two committee-men pro- 
ceeded leisurely toward the school-house. 

In the mean time poor Lilias Avas trudging through the snow, 
her nethe-- 'in pouting after the most approved style of angry 
beauties, and her little heart throbbing with a variety of con- 
tending emotions, none of which were actually pleasurable, 
except the one excited by a little pile of silver which she saw 
in prospect — the fruit of her own labor. At thought of this, 
she brushed away the tear that sparkled on her lashes, and, 
drawing up her slight figure with an air of determination, 
stepped boldly and decidedly into the portico and placed her 
hand on the latch of the door. This done, she paused ; the 
little heart, but a moment before so resolute, fluttered tumul- 
tuously, the head drooped, the eyes brimmed over, and the 
fingers extended so firmly, now quivered with agitation. Poor 
Lilias Fane ! what would she not have given to feel her 
mother's arms about her, and weep on her sympathizing 
bosom. 

Farmer Westbprn, and Squire Mason, and the rest of the 
school-meeting men, were in earnest when they decided that 
the "big boys" should not be allowed to attend school; but 
they had been in earnest a great many times before ; so the 
boys knew perfectly well what it meant, and were now on 
hand, preparing for the reception of the new teacher. Little 
did poor Lilias Fane imagine what stout hearts awaited her 
entrance, or her courage would not have been prompt to return ; 
but the thought of home, her widowed mother, and helpless 
little brothers and sisters, in connection with the all-important 
salary, nerved her up. Again she erected her head and wiped 
away the tears ; then, throwing open the door, she walked 
quietly and firmly into the room. What a spectacle ! children 
of all sizes, from the little aproned chap, hardly yet from the 

VOL. II. 14* 



162 LILIAS FANE. 

cradle, up to the height of the new schoolmistress, and youths 
towering far above her, in almost the pride of manhood, turned 
their faces toward the door, and stood gaping in silent aston- 
ishment. There were Susan Harman, and Sally Jones, and 
Nabby Woods, all older than the schoolmistress, and several 
others who were larger; and at the extremity of the room 
stood Alfred Mason, a man in size if not in form, surrounded 
by the six shock-headed Westborns, Bill Blount, Philip Clute, 
and Nehemiah Strong, all school rowdies of the first water. 
Well might they stare, for such a vision never met their eyes 
before; and well might bright Lilias smile at the locks of 
wonder that greeted her at every turn. A smile, if it is a 
perfectly natural one, full of mirthfulness, and slightly spiced 
with mischief, is the best of all passports to a young heart ; 
and not a face was there in the whole room but caught the 
infection, and answered with a bashful grin the twinkle of the 
little maiden's eye and the curl of her lip. Oh ! sadly did 
naughty Lilias compromise the dignity of the schoolmistress ; 
but what she lost in one respect was more than made up in 
another. Nabby Woods went about brushing the slippery 
dried peas from the floor, lest the smiling fairy of a new school- 
dame should be made their victim, as had been duly planned 
for a week beforehand ; and Philip Clute, first glancing at 
Alfred Mason for approbation, stepped awkwardly forward and 
put a whole chair in the place of the broken one that had been 
stationed before the desk for the benefit of the new teacher ; 
thus making himself the first to receive her cheerful salutation. 
Philip had never been knowoi to shrink before birchen rod or 
cherry ferule ; but Lilias Fane, with her merry blue eye and 
face full of kindness and gentleness, half-hidden in the mirthful 
dimples which played over it — sweet Lilias Fane was a dif- 
ferent thing. She could not be looked upon with indifference, 
and poor Philip twisted himself into as many shapes as a 
cloud-wreath in a tempest, or a captured eel, and turned as 
red as the blood-beets in his father's cellar. On passed the 
bright-faced Lilias around the room, nodding to one, smiling 
to another, and addressing some cheerful remark to those who 



LILIAS FANE. 



163 



seemed a little afraid of her, until she reached the group over 
which the redoubtable Mason presided. By this time she had 
gained all hearts ; for had n't she said we when talking to the 
" big girls," as though she did n't feel herself a bit above 
them? and hadn't she patted the heads of the younger ones 
with her pretty little hand, in a way which proved beyond the 
possibility of a doubt, that she was a decided enemy to hair- 
pulling? Alfred Mason had seen it all, and, to prove to the 
new schoolmistress that he was a little superior to the West- 
boms & Co., he advanced three steps and made a bow as 
much like Mr. Fielding's as he could. This done, he passed 
his fingers through his shining black hair, twitched his shirt- 
collar, and elevated head and shoulders after a very manly 
fashion, as though silently resolving not to be afraid of any- 
thing this side of fairy land, though appearing in the shape of 
Titania herself. But bewitching, roguish, naughty Miss 
Fane did bewilder him notwithstanding; for, having always 
considered himself a rascally scape-grace of a boy, bound to 
do as much mischief as he could, he suddenly found himself 
transformed into a man ; and a beautiful creature, with a child's 
blushes and a woman's smiles, asking him questions in the 
most respectful tone, hoping that she should be seconded by 
the young gentlemen before her in all her efforts, and insinu- 
ating, very gracefully and very sweetly, how much she relied 
upon them for success in her present undertaking. The 
smile, the tone of voice, the manner, combined with the flat- 
tering address, were perfectly irresistible ; and Alfred Mason, 
after perpetrating another bow, addressed a few whispered 
words to his companions, and walked away to a seat. His 
example was immediately followed by the whole school, and 
Mi3S Fane was left standing in the midst of subjects as loyal 
as any sovereign would care to reign over. At this agreeable 
crisis the door opened, and it may well be believed that in 
every dimple of Lilias Fane's young face lurked a roguish 
smile, as her eye lighted on Mr. Fielding and Deacon Martin, 
The bachelor observed it, and he was " the least bit in the 
world " disconcerted, while the deacon raised his eye-brows 



164 LILIAS FANE. 

and shrugged his shoulders more emphatically than ever, but 
not contemptuously. If the two committee-men had been 
astonished before, they were doubly so now ; and it was with 
a much more respectful air than he had at first assumed, that 
Mr. Fielding saluted the little lady, and apologized for his pre- 
vious neglect. 

" You have undertaken a very heavy task, Miss Fane," he 
remarked, in a tone which, from the proximity of the audience 
on the seats, was necessarily low, and thus seemingly confi- 
dential. 

Thoughtless Lilias ! she shook her head and smiled. " It 
is a dreadful responsible station," chimed in the deacon. 

A shade of seriousness flitted over the face of Lilias, and 
then she smiled again. 

" Our school is considered a very difficult one,." observed 
the bachelor. 

" I apprehend no difficulty at all," Lilias replied, in a tone 
of gayety. 

" But, Miss Fane," persisted the deacon, " it is my duty to 
undeceive you as to the character of our school." 

Still the little lady smiled confidently. 

" Very difficult to manage, I can assure you," added the 
bachelor. 

Lilias glanced around the room with a triumphant, incred- 
ulous air, as much as to say, " It seems to me just the easiest 
thing in the world," (the saucy little gypsy !) — but she did not 
say it. Her only reply was to beg the privilege of consulting 
two such able advisers, should she chance to meet with unex- 
pected difficulties. The deacon received the comphment gra- 
ciously, not probably observing a touch of sarcasm, more dis 
coverable in the dancing blue eye than in the voice ; but Mr. 
Fielding looked displeased, bowed stiffly, and, after a few 
formal words, took his leave, followed by the worthy deacon. 

" I shouldn't wonder," remarked Deacon Martin, after they 
were seated in the sleigh, "I shouldn't wonder if this little 
Miss Fane made a pretty good teacher after all. It's won- 
derful that the children should be so orderly this morning." 



LILIAS FANE. 165 

Mr. Fielding gave his head a twitch, something between a 
.shake and a nod, and looked knowing. It was evident that 
he could say a great deal if he chose. This non-committal 
movement is Wisdom's favorite cloak ; and so much in vogue 
is it, that it sometimes even passes current when the cloaked 
is missing. 

For that day at least Lilias Fane was happy. She smiled 
and was smiled upon. And she began to think it was just 
tfte pleasantest thing in the world to be the presiding genius 
of such a place, exercising uncontrolled power, dispensing 
smiles and sunshine at will, beloved and loving. But her day 
of darkness was to come. Scarce a week had passed before 
there were indications of a revolt among some of her subjects ; 
and she was alarmed to find that there were difficulties 
which a smile and a loving word could not heal. At home, 
her dear delightful home, she had been taught to believe them 
a universal balm — oil for the wildest wave, a hush for the 
deadliest tempest. But yet, never Avas schoolmistress idol- 
ized like darling Lilias Fane. Even the hearts of the West- 
boms began to melt beneath the glances of her beaming eye, 
and Alfred Mason was her never-failing friend and champion. 
Poor Alf Mason ! Sad was the reputation he bore in the 
district ; and nobody would believe he was in earnest when 
he behaved properly ; but he was in reality more given to 
mirth than malice, fonder of fun than real mischief — and he 
could see no fun at all in annoying sweet Miss Fane. But 
she was annoyed nevertheless, not so much by her pupils, as 
by remarks which were constantly reaching her concerning 
her youth, inexperience, and consequent inefficiency. It was 
said that she was a child among the children ; and so she was, 
liut how could she help it — the bright pet Lilias ! Scarce 
sixteen summers had burnished her fair locks, and her heart 
was full of childish impulses. It was said that she had no 
dignity of manner, and stood among her pupils as one of them 
— faults which she was but too conscious of possessing. As 
well might you look for dignity in a humming-bird, or a fawn, 
as in Lilias Fane — the darling ! She loved her pupils 



166 



LILIAS FANE. 



dearly, and could not but betray her interest. She had too 
many sympathies in common with them to stand aloof in joy 
or sorrow ; and in the loved and the loving were merged the 
teacher and the taught. It was even said that her voice had 
been known to mingle in the merry shout that sometimes 
arose from the school-room ; and there must have been some 
truth in the report; for her pupils could not have had the 
heart to laugh when she was serious. In truth, Lilias Fane 
was a strange teacher ; though she may have taught the lore 
most needed — those heart-lessons, richer than all the theories 
of all the schools united. In her other lessons she was capri- 
cious. She taught what she loved, and that she made her 
pupils love ; but what was dry and difficult she passed over, 
as in studying she had been allowed to do by her too indul- 
gent governess. Yet she was unwearied in her efforts, and 
never thought of self when the good of her pupils was con- 
cerned ; and so, despite the faults in her system of education, 
her school made rapid improvement. But no degree of 
improvement was sufficient to satisfy those who detected these 
faults ; and soon the war of words ran high for and against 
the poor schoolmistress, whose only offences were too much 
beauty, too immature youth, and a too kind heart. These 
things could not occur without Miss Fane's knowledge ; for 
her young friends, in their mistaken zeal, repeated every word 
to her, and she (poor simple-hearted child !) was undignified 
enough to listen to their representations, and receive their 
expressions of sympathy. They were all the friends she had. 
Thus passed one third of Lilias Fane's term of service, in 
alternate storm and sunshine, till at last Farmer Westborn 
took a decided step ; and, in spite of yoimg shock-heads' 
remonstrances, removed all of his six children from school. 
Sad was the face poor Lilias Fane exhibited on this occasion ; 
and all of her flock were sad from sympathy. Looks, some 
of sorrow and some of indignation, were exchanged among 
the elder pupils ; and the younger ones gazed in silent won- 
der on the flushed face and tearful eye of her, who, neverthe- 
lesS; wculd now and then give them a smile, from sheer habit. 



LILIAS FANE. 



167 



At last the day ended, and sad, and low, and kinder even than 
usual, were the good-nights of the sympathizing group, as, one 
by one, they disappeared through the door, till the poor little 
school-mistress was left alone; and then she covered her face 
with her hands and wept. 

" I wouldn't mind it, Miss Fane," said a timid, but sympa- 
thizing voice close by her ear. 

" How can I help it, Alfred ? " asked weeping Lilias, with- 
out raising her head ; " Mr. Westborn must have a sad opinion 
of me, or he never — " 

" Mr. Westborn is a fool ! the meanest man — " 

" Alfred !" 

" You don't know him, Miss Fane, or you would say so too 
But don't cry any more — don't ; come over and see Mary 
— you have true friends. Miss Fane — you — they — " and 
here Alfred stopped short ; for, although particularly anxious 
to console Miss Fane, he seemed to be suffering under a most 
painful embarrassment. The gentle, indeed touching tone of 
voice was not lost on poor Lilias ; although there seemed to 
be some reason why she should not listen to it ; for she raised 
her head, and, with more calmness than she could have been 
expected to command, replied, " You are very kind, Alfred, 
and I thank you, but — " 

" I understand you. Miss Fane," interrupted the youth, 
somewhat proudly ; " kindness should not be too obtrusive." 

" No, Alfred, you mistake me. I prize the sympathy of 
my friends but too highly; and it is gratifying to know that 
all my pupils, if no others, are of the number." 

"Yes, they all are — yet — Miss — Miss Fane — ," and 
Alfred stammered on, more embarrassed than ever. 

" I can assure them that their kindness will be remembered 
most gratefully, and their friendship warmly returned," added 
Miss Fane, with a gentle dignity, which prevented familiarity, 
while it soothed. 

Alfred Mason stood for a few moments irresolute, and 
Lilias resumed. " To you, in particular, Alfred, am I deeply 
indebted. You have defended me in my absence, assisted 



168 



LILIAS FANE. 



me in school, hoth by your example and counsel ; and have 
performed the thousand little services which have contributed 
thus far to make my time here among strangers pass so agree- 
ably. I shall never forget you, kind, generous friend that you 
are ! And Mary, toO' — my own brother and sister could not 
have watched more carefully over my comfort and happiness. 
I have much to say to you of this, but not now. To-night I 
have subjects of thought less pleasant, and must be alone." 

" I shouldn't like to trouble you, Miss Fane, but I came to 
tell you there is to be a school-meeting to-night. Oh, how I 
wish I were a man ! in influence, I mean, for I know that I 
have a man's soul, a — " 

" What is the school-meeting for, Alfred 1 " 

" Oh, Mr. Fielding — cross old bachelor ! — but I won't tell 
you anything about it — it's too provoking ! " 

"I shouldn't expect any good from Mr. Fielding," said 
Lilias, with an unusual degree of acrimony. Why so exceed- 
ingly indignant at him, when, if he had not sympathized, he 
surely had done thee no injury, gentle Lilias ? 

" He ! no danger of his doing good anywhere — though he 
says he 'pities the young lady' — pities! But who do you 
think he wants to get in your place ?" 

Lilias stood aghast, for in all her troubles the thought of 
losing her situation had not occurred to her ; and now they 
had actually planned her removal, and were about appointing 
a successor. " Who, Alfred ? " she gasped, tremblingly. 

" Would you believe it. Miss Fane — that ugly, cross, vin- 
egar-faced Miss Digby — it is too bad! At any rate, they 
will rue the day they get her here. What is the matter, Miss 
Fane ? you are as pale as death." 

" Nothing — go now, Alfred — you shall tell me more to- 
morrow." 

Well might young Lilias Fane turn pale, poor child ! at 
this intelligence ; for at that very moment she held her 
mother's last letter in her bosom ; and in that letter had the 
fond, hoping mother rejoiced over the bright prospects of her 
darling, called her the guardian angel of the family, and hoped 



LILIAS FANE. 169 

that through her efforts, comfort might again be restored to 
their little home. And now to be obliged to return in dis- 
grace, disappoint the expectations of that doting parent, and 
become a burden where she should be a helper, was too much 
— more than she could bear. Alfred obeyed her, and retired 
in sorrowful silence ; and poor Lilias, pressing one small hand 
upon her aching head, paced the floor in a bitterness of spirit 
that she had never felt before. We may be angels while love 
makes an Eden for us ; but when we go out among the thorns, 
we find another spirit rising up, and learn, alas ! that we are 
not yet all meekness and purity. The disheartening lesson 
was embittering still more the spirit of Lilias, as she paced up 
and down her deserted room. But why should Mr. Fielding 
be so unkind ? how had she offended him ? These questions 
puzzled her most painfully ; and then, heavily and hopelessly, 
came thoughts of the future. What should she do ? She 
was sure of the sympathy of good-natured Mary Mason ; but 
such a friend was scarce sufficient for the exigency. There 
was no one to advise her, no one who, acquainted with all the 
circumstances of the case, could say what was for the best ; 
no one even who could be made to comprehend her feelings. 
And she longed to pour out all her troubles in some friendly 
bosom. Once the thought of Alfred Mason crossed her mind, 
but she only muttered, blushing even there, " kind, silly 
boy !" and again recurred to the one grand question — what 
should she do ? In the midst of these reflections, a footstep 
sounded on the threshold, and before she had time to wonder 
who was there, Mr. Fielding stood before her. The surprise 
seemed mutual ; but Lilias, probably from her sense of injury, 
was the first to recover her presence of mind. She crushed a 
whole shower of bright crystals that were in the act of 
descending, elevated her head, and with a slight courtesy, was 
proceeding to adjust her cloak, when Mr. Fieldhig approached 
her. 

" Excuse me, ]\Iiss Fane, for this intrusion ; I did not 
expect to find you here, but since I have, perhaps you will 
tivor me with a few moments' conversation." 

VOL. u 15 



170 LILIAS FANE. 

*' With pleasure, sir, in a proper place," said Lilias, keep- 
ing down her anger with a strong effort. " I presume Deacon 
Martin will be happy to see you ? " 

" It is you that I wish to see, Miss Fane, and for that, 1 
shall have no good opportunity at Deacon Martin's." 

" Your communication must be of consequence," said 
Lilias, endeavoring to assume an air of carelessness. 

" You are right — it is of some consequence to you, and so, 
of course, to your friends." 

" Among which, I am well aware, that I havo not the honor 
to reckon Mr. Fielding," said Lilias, provoked beyond endur- 
ance, by this seeming duplicity. The bachelor was evidently 
the most imperturbable of mortals. The little maiden's eye 
flashed, and her cheeks were crimson with indignation ; but 
not a muscle of his face moved ; he neither looked confused 
nor angry, but in his usual tone, replied, " I will not contend 
with you upon that point, Miss Fane, for mere professions are 
empty things. However, it is my wish to act the part of a 
friend by you now." 

" You will have an opportunity to exhibit your friendship 
in tile school-meeting, this evening," said Lilias, with a curl- 
ing lip ; " and, if I am rightly informed, it is jour intention to 
do so." 

Strange to say, Mr. Fielding was not yet demolished, but 
with increasing sa?tg froid he replied, " If you had received 
less information from injudicious persons, it might have been 
better for you, and most assuredly would have saved you 
much unhappiness." 

The little lady trotted her foot in vexation, for she knew 
his remark to be true ; meantime, muttering something about 
even injudicious friends being preferable to the most punctil- 
ious enemies. 

" There I beg leave to dissent," "^aid Mr. Fielding, with 
perfect coolness ; " honorable enemies — " 

" Excuse me, sir," interrupted Lilias, losing all patience 
" I am not in a mood for discussion to-night, and you — it ia 
almost time for the school-meeting-." 



LILIAS FANE. 171 

" The school-meeting has been deferred." 

" Deferred ! " Miss Fane's young face brightened, like the 
sky with an April sun-flash, for what might not a little more 
time do for her ? and she extended her hand involuntarily, 
while a " forgive me" hovered on her smile-wreathed lips. 

" It will not take place till next week ; and in the mean 
time," continued Mr. Fielding, hesitatingly, " it would — if 1 
might — if you would but have confidence in my motives, 
Miss Fane, I would venture a piece of advice." 

" To which I am bound to listen," said Lilias, gayly, and 
turning upon the adviser a face radiant with happiness ; for 
the week's respite had quite restored her fallen spirits. 

" Bound ?" 

" From choice, I mean," said Lilias, with a smile which 
made the bachelor quite forget that she had been angry. 

" Then I will talk freely as to a friend — a sister," and Mr. 
Fielding spoke in a low tone, and hurried his words, as 
though the ice might be beginning to thaw. " Your position 
must be a very painful one. You have, I know, gained all 
hearts, but the judgments of many are against you, and the 
prejudices of more. You have many professed friends, and 
they do indeed feel kindly toward you ; but each has some 
petty interest to serve, some feeling of rivalry to gratify, and 
there is not one among them, in whom you can place implicit 
confidence." 

" I know it ! I have felt it all, only too deeply, too bitterly . 

but what can I do ? Oh, if my mother could be here ! " and, 

overcome by the sudden re\Tilsion of feeling, Lilias burst into 

tears. 

; " Then go to her. Miss Fane — go to-morrow — her disin- 

I terestedness you cannot doubt." 

" Nor is there room for doubt in the case of another per- 
son," retorted Lilias, in a tone of bitterness. " You have at 
I least the merit of dealing openly, Mr. Fielding." 
I " You distrust me without cause, Miss Fane," said the 
bachelor, warmly ; " it is to save you pain, that I recommend 
this course ; and it was in the hope of inducing you to with- 



172 LILIAS FANE. 

draw, tliat I persuaded them to defer the meeting. We hav<! 
coarse natures here, and you must not come in contact with 
them. Allow me to advise you, and do not enter your school 
again." 

Poor Lilias Fane ! the net was about her, and flutter as she 
would, she could not get free. " Then they intend to dismiss 
me ? " she asked, despondingly. 

" If you give them the opportunity, I fear they will." 

" What have I done, Mr. Fielding, to deserve this?" 

" Everything that is good and praiseworthy ; but a district 
school is not the place for one like you. A school-teacher 
must not be too sensitive — she must know how to endure, to 
return buffetings." 

" Oh, Mr. Fielding, I am sure it is not necessary for a 
school-teacher to be bad or heartless. I know what unfits me 
for the place — I have too little character — too little self- 
dependence ; — but I should improve — I am sure I should. I 
cannot leave my school until I am obliged to leave it ; as per- 
haps even you wiU do me the justice to believe, I would have 
undertaken it only from necessity'. Even a week is of impor- 
tance to me." 

" I have not felt at liberty to inquire your motive. Miss 
Fane, but I have felt assured that it was no unworthy one, 
and your partial failure is attended with no disgrace. Indeed," 
and there was so much sincerity in Mr. Fielding's words, that 
he did not think how warmly he was praising, "I have 
watched your patience, your industrj'-, your gentleness and 
sweetaess, with admiration; and it is to the very qualities 
most admirable, that your want of success may be traced." 

" And so I must go ! "' exclaimed Lilias, with a fresh gush 
of feeling. " My poor, poor mother! Indeed, Mr. Fielding 
— but you must be my friend, and I wiU do as you bid 
me, for there is nobody in the world to say just what I ought 
to do." 

The bachelor was almost as much agitated as poor Lilias 
Fane. Fresh interest seemed to be gathering around the 
little school-mistress, and yet he had too much delicacy to 



LILIAS FANE. 173 

press inquiries, which at any other time would seem imperti- 
nent. There was, however, a better understanding between 
the school-committee-man and the lady-teacher ; and so 
another half hour was passed in conversation without a single 
angry word, after which, the two emerged from the school- 
house together, and taking a seat in the sleigh, proceeded 
toward Deacon Martin's. 

That night, bright young Lilias Fane, for almost the first 
time ir. her life, went to her pillow with an aching heart, 
though caused by a seeming trifle in comparison with her 
other sources of sorrow. Nurtured in the lap of luxury, made 
beggars by the death of a husband and father, who was an 
object of almost idolatr}' to a loving, helpless group ; visited 
by disappointment, neglect and sickness, the little family had 
struggled on and been happy. They had stemmed the tor- 
rent together. But Mrs. Fane's exertions were wasting life. 
Lilias was the eldest child, and her only dependence. ^\Tiat 
could the delicate, fragile young girl do, to be useful ? Plain 
sewing yielded but slight recompense to fingers too little 
accustomed to its mysteries, and, in the retirement which Mrs. 
Fane had chosen, ornamental needle-work found no market. 
True, Lilias knew something of drawing and music ; but she 
had never thought of either as a profession, and she felt con- 
scious that her knowledge of both was too superficial to turn 
to account. Little did Mrs. Fane or Lilias know of a district 
school, particularly in the winter; but they knew that teaching 
was considered a respectable employment ; so the trial was 
made, and bitter to Lilias was the result. 

The next morning the children assembled at the school- 
nouse as usual, but they were soon dispersed by the sad 
intelligence that Miss Fajie had been called suddenly home ; 
which information caused quite a sensation throughout the 
district. Alfred Mason kicked over tlie breakfast table Mhen 
he heard the news, declared that it was Mr. Fielding's work, 
and he ought to be hanged, and chopped wood furiously all 
the rest of the day. 

Some people thought it quite strange that Miss Fane did 

vol.. II. 15* 



174 LILIAS FANE. 

not go home in the stage-coach, as she came, and there was 
some little gossiping on the subject ; but Mrs. Martin said 
Mr. Fielding had convinced her that his sleigh, with the buf- 
falo robes, was much more comfortable, and warm, and safe, 
and had talked so much of the inconveniences of stage-coach 
travelling, that the good dame declared she should " be afeared 
of the ugly things all the days of her life." 

In the mean time, the lady and gentleman were pursuing 
their way very sociably, if not very happily ; and Lilias 
found, to her infinite astonishment, that Mr. Fielding, when 
he threw off the school-committee-man, and had no unpleasant 
point to gain, (such as telling a lady she is mistaken in her 
vocation,) could be vastly agreeable. He even went so far as 
to draw a picture of her successor, the vinegar-faced Miss 
Digby, at which Lilias laughed so heartily that she could not 
help wondering the next moment what had become of her. 
sadness. Looking for sadness, or any other unwelcome visi- 
tor, (vide the old adage,) is the very way to bring it to your 
presence ; and so Mr. Fielding felt himself called upon to play 
the agreeable to an unusual extent; and Lilias wondered how 
she could be so happy, until she was obliged to explain the 
cause of her misery, just for the sake of refreshing her mem- 
ory. And then Mr. Fielding was sad too — oh, so sad ! And 
then he said something in a very low tone — doubtless to let 
her know how much he pitied herj but it must have been 
awkwardly done, for Lilias blushed a great deal more than 
when she was angry vidth him. Mr. Fielding blushed, too, 
and both looked as though they were quite ready to quarrel 
again. What a lucky circumstance that they did not arrive 
at this crisis before, for now Lilias exclaimed, joyously, " Oh, 
we are home ! " and the sleigh drew up before Mrs. Fane's 
door. 

It would be impossible to say whether Mrs. Fane felt more 
gladness or surprise at sight of Lilias; and the little ones 
gathered around her, " all clamorous," not " for bread," but 
kisses. 

Mr. Fielding glanced from the noisy, happy group to the 



LILIAS FANE. 175 

pale, thin face of the mother, and then around upon the scanty 
furniture; and, callous old bachelor as he was, he felt his 
lieart swelling in his throat, and the moisture in his eye made 
him ashamed of himself. 

Mr. Fielding did not return home that day, for his horse 
had lost a shoe, which it was necessary should be replaced ; 
and the next day there came a snow-storm, which only a 
madman would brave ; th'en the third day, I do not quite know 
what detained him, but it must have been something of 
importance, as he was the last man in the world to exchange 
the comforts of home for the inconveniences of a village hotel, 
without sufficient reason. On the fourth day, hoAvever, 
toward night, he was so fortunate as to undertake his home- 
ward journey ; but, before this, he was closeted a long time 
with the again radiant Lilias, and afterward, with her mother ; 
and he finally quitted them, with a face so brimming over 
with happiness, as to show — perhaps — how glad he was to 
get away ! 

Early the ensuing spring, the cottage down by the Maple 
Grove had a new mistress ; and another, close by, was pur- 
chased and fitted up tastefully, for a pale, sweet widow and 
her bright-eyed children ; the eldest of whom, Alfred Mason 
declares a vast deal prettier than her sister Lilias. 



176 



THE TWO FLOWERS. 

A FLOWER peeped out from the folds of green 

Which had long about it lain ; 
A dainty thing in purple sheen, 

Without a bUght or stain. 
A brighter bud ne'er burst, I ween. 

In bower, on hill, or plain. 

And the breeze came out and kissed its lip, 

And the sun looked in its eye ; 
And the golden bee, its sweets to sip. 

Kept all day buzzing by ; . ■ 

There chose the grasshopper to skip ; 

There glanced the butterfly. 

A human soul from that young flower 

Seemed glorying in the light ; 
And when came on the mellow hour, 

The blossom still was bright ; 
And then there crept around the bower 

A dark and solemn night. 

Gay dawn her portals open flung, 

But the floweret looked not up ; 
There on its light-poised stem it hung, 

A tear within its cup ; 
Close to Its heart the woe-drop clung ; 

And the floweret looked not up. 

The winning breezes whispered round ; 

Warm sun-rays came a-wooing ; 
And bright-winged, bliss-born things were found 

Beside its petals suing ; 
But the flower bent lower to the ground, 

Those petals on it strewing. 



THE TWO FLOWERS. 177 

And when I saw the blossom dead, 

Upon the dewy sod, 
I thought of one whose bright young head 

Is pillowed by the clod ; 
Who stayed one sorrowing tear to shed, 

Then bore it to her God- 



178 



RUG RAFFLES. 

Sovereigns of the olden time had their jesters ; and the 
" sovereign people" on this side the water have revived the 
fashion, with several other useful things dug up from the 
rubbish of the past. Every circle constituting a court, every 
individual of which is a king, has its " queer genius ;" and 
every little village has its privileged quizzer, its regularly in- 
stalled jester. It is this important personage who goes about. 
at night changing signs ; leaving the barber's pole at the door 
of the merchant most renowned for shaving ; putting " turn- 
ing" on the county Surrogate's office, and " fancy goods" on 
the young ladies' seminary. The same enterprising gentle- 
man pastes a little slip of white paper over the M, when the 
hand-bills announce that there is to be a mass meeting ; sews 
up the top of his bed-fellow's hose ; rings door-bells on his 
way home from a pleasant spree at midnight ; and imitates 
most successfully the inarticulate language of every animal, 
from the tremulously vain crow of the novice cock, up to the 
roar of the infuriated bull ! Oh, what a terror the humor- 
loving wight is to adventurous children and housemaids in 
search of recreation ! 

We are not without our jester at Alderbrook, of course ; 
as well dispense with hot coffee and muffins at breakfast. 
Ruggles Eaffles, the gentleman who officiates in the capacity 
of mirth-maker general to their majesties the sovereign people 
of Alderbrook, is a fat, jolly personage, with a peculiarjy /wtz- 
ny rolling gait when Re walks, and a way, quite as peculiar 
and quite as funny, of putting up his feet or hands when he 
sits. There is a laugh nestled in every curve of his big, ugly 
fingers, whether they exercise their muscles in expressive 
gestures, or lay themselves away to rest on his knee ; and the 
knee itself crooks a little differently from any other mortal 



RUG RAFFLES. 179 

knee, so that you mechanically pinch your lips together when 
you look at it, to prevent an unseemly explosion. Some say 
Rug Raffles never does any harm with his mischief; while 
others as decidedly declare that such doings never come to 
good. If our jester really occupies the innocent state of be- 
tweenity ascribed to him, he is better off than most of us. I 
do not know whether the sin of neglecting to do good finds a 
fair oftset in the virtue of neglecting to do evil ; but I fancy 
that it is rather difficult to find a nearer balancing of accounts. 
Well is it for us all that the balancing is not in the hands of 
blundering mortals, who, with the wise solemnity of apes, look 
us in the face, and call evil good and good evil. I think that 
Rug Raffles, after all, is not a man to be despised, though his 
calling be not of the highest order. 

If our jester would but confine his pranks to undignified 
people and to six days, he would be rather more popular with 
the respectables ; but propriety (or rather tact) is one of the 
things for which Rug Raffles lacks the genius. So he some- 
times exposes himself to the severity of Deacon Palmer's men- 
tal love-pats, which he receives with all due humility. I have 
in my memory now an occasion of this kind. There was a 
time when some of us wearied of our good old parson Brown, 
and desired something more modern than his pious, homely 
simplicity. Parson Brown exercised the law of love to a great 
extent ; and this was made to appear a crime by some uneasy 
spirits, who thought the go-ahead system might be made to 
operate in the church at Alderbrook as in the church and 
world elsewhere. So our wisely gentle pastor was pushed 
out of the place that he had occupied since Alderbrook was a 
forest, to make room for a successor. A more suitable man, 
was the first cry; but, Tinything for a change, soon became 
the rule of action, though it was not exactly bodied in words ; 
so in reality the new pastor owed his entire popularity to 
being, as Deacon Palmer ventured to whisper, " a new broom." 
A tall, stiff, formal man, with a loud, monotonous voice, and a 
manner of mingled pomposity and severity, came among us, 
to edify our elders with abstruse theories, and throw a shadow 



ISO RUG RAFFLES. 

on the hearts of us little children, who had been fed by lessona 
of love from his predecessor. I do not know how the congre- ' 
gation at large looked upon the new pastor; but the children j 
and the Rug Raffleses clung with all their hearts to the old 
regime, and hated most cordially " sour parson Lawsley." . 
Besides the Browns were almost broken-hearted at the indig- 
■ nity done them ; to say nothing of the respectable living which 
they had lost, thus throwing them unexpectedly upon the 
slender resources of uninitiated money-makers. And who 
should pity them, pray, if we did not? And how should we { 
ever expect pardon for our ingratitude, if we could find it in •- 
our hearts to take kindly to one we believed their enemy ? 
We could not, and we would not ; and so there was nothing 
left us but to wage an ^ uncompromising war with parson 
Lawsley. To be sure it was little that we children could do 
but get tired and rustle our dresses and rattle our feet about in 
church ; but Rug Raffles was a man of m.eans. Many were 
the lettered strips of board which came to label the parsonage 
m the night time, now proclaiming there was " pig iron" 
within, and now " white-washing done" by the master of the 
mansion; but still the Rev, Mr. Lawsley walked with the 
same air of consequence up and down the village side-walk, 
till Rug Raffles wished himself a fly, and thought very highly 
of nose-tickling. Sometimes he managed to pin strips^of pa- 
per to the Rev. gentleman's coat, with rather gay scraps of 
songs upon them ; but these were soon removed, and, strange 
to say, without an abatement of dignity. 

Our church is an old-fashioned one, with a good fat weath- 
ercock (that wheezes when the wind blows, as though it had 
the asthma) upon the belfry, and big, plain glass windows, 
guiltless of shutters, commanding a view of the whole village 
and the farm houses upon its skirts. There is a large gallery 
extending all around the inside, the front of which is occupied 
by a very fine-toned organ (purchased in honor of the new 
pastor) and a half score of vocalists, and the back, just behind 
the pulpit, by the " boys and loafers." Among this motley 
company Rug Raffles reigns king. Not that he exactly classes 



I 



RUG RAFFLES. ISl 

himself with either; but other people do it for him. The 
respectables call him a loafer, and the boys are very sure he 
belongs to them. One morning, parson Lawsley walked into 
the pulpit as usual, read a portion of Scripture and then a 
hymn, and sat down to examine his notes. Immediately 
above him, peering over the gallery witli a most waggish 
expression of countenance, leaned Rug Raffles, his fat arms 
folded beneath his chin, and his round head wagging from 
side to side, as though there had been a thought in it disin- 
clined to quiet. There was a striking contrast between the 
long chin, hollow temples, cadaverous cheeks, and severely 
serious face below, and the puff-cheeked, peaked-eyed, mirth- 
lipped visage peering down upon him with a ludicrous expres- 
sion of mock gravity which sent a smile to many a lip. Soon 
the hymn was ended, and the preacher rose and leaned upon 
his cushioned desk to pray. The heads of the more reverent 
part of the congregation were bowed, while Rug Raffles 
entertained the rest. He pulled a line from his pocket, dis- 
entangled a fish-hook from his waistcoat, and, attaching it to 
the line, began to lower it towards the sofa in the pulpit. 
People stared and sn^iled, for it was scarce to be expected that 
Rug Raffles would make a good " fisher of men." But this 
was not his object. After he had angled for some time on 
the sofa, his eye suddenly brightened, the corners of his mouth 
retreated toward his ears, and with a nod and Avave of triumph, 
which very nearly convulsed the wailing congregation with 
laughter, he suddenly brought his prize to light. He had 
managed to catch his hook upon a thread, and the Rev. Mr. 
Lawsley's sermon was fast approaching the gallery. An 
involuntary titter caused Deacon Palmer and several others to 
raise their heads ; but Rug Raffles was carefully conning his 
notes, and the cause of the untimely mirth was undiscovera- 
ble. The prayer ended, another hymn was sung, and the 
preacher began to look about him for his sermon. He thrust 
his hands first into one pocket and then in the other, exam- 
ined the contents of his hat, turned over the leaves of the 
Bible with irreverent haste, again rummaged his pockets, 
VOL. u. 16 



182 RUG RAFFLES. 

looked upon the floor, and then paused to wipe the heavy 
perspiration from his brow, little dreaming that his lost manu- 
script was far above his head. But if he had turned an eye 
upward, he would have seen nothing but Rug Raffles gazing 
down inquiringly upon him, as though wondering if the im- 
perturbable parson Lawsley had really gone mad. As for the 
congregation, some were enjoying the joke without compunc- 
tion, while others, according to their different dispositions, had 
their sympathies enlisted in behalf of the distressed c.ergy- 
man. But both classes found it difficult to restrain their 
laughter. At last the preacher, in evident despair, opened his 
Bible, turned over the leaves handful after handful, and, 
finally, in a strange state of nervous excitement, paused as 
though to calm his thoughts. Rug Raffles spread the sermon 
before him, donned a pair of horn-mounted spectacles with the 
glasses out, and began to look important. Parson Lawsley 
announced his text, and Rug Raffles nodded approbatively. 
The preacher commenced his exordium, and Rug nodded 
again, with a patronizing air, which said as plainly as words, 
" Good boy ! good boy ! he has his lesson nicely." In a mo- 
ment, however, the preacher began to extemporize, and Rug 
frowned and shook his head violently. It was too much for 
the gravity of the initiated part of the audience, and there was 
a half-smothered burst of laughter, which startled even them- 
selves, and put parson Lawsley to the torture. He was not 
accustomed to speaking extemporaneously, and he fancied he 
had excited the laugh by his awkwardness. The preacher 
went on, hesitatingly and tremblingly; Rug Raffles frowned 
and shook his head, now and then giving a quick nod of appro- 
bation ; and the audience was a most irreverently smiling one. 
At last the strange sermon ended, and the preacher leaned, 
over his desk to pray. Immediately Rug Raffles commenced 
operations again. He drew a piece of twine from his pocket, 
and tying it loosely around the pilfered sermon, began lower- 
ing it toward the sofa. Down, down, slowly and carefully it 
came ; then there was a sudden jerk, and the disengaged line 
was gathered up and stowed away in the pocket of the jester. 



RtIG RAFFLES. 183 

The clergyman ended his prayer, and turned to the sofa. 
There lay his lost sermon, in the very spot where he had 
placed it. He started backward with astonishment, and, un- 
fortunately being nearer the side of the pulpit than he had 
imagined, lost his balance on the top stair, and turned a som- 
erset to the bottom. That parson Lawsley had surely gone 
mad was the general impression, and the congregation scat- 
' tered, leaving Rug Raffles in the vestibule, chuckling over the 
: success of his feat. After this everybody took occasion to tack 
a SHiile to the name of parson Lawsley whenever it was men- 
tioned, and in six months' time our dear old pastor was rein- 
' stalled in his ofRce and we have never wearied of him since. 
When Deacon Palmer first heard the truth of the Lawsley 
story, he gave Rug Raffles a serious reprimand and — pre- 
sented him with a new coat ! This was an era in Rug's life. 
' His seedy, thread-bare habiliments had tried severely the 
I affection between warp and woof; and though he was never 
I weary of caressing the friends that had stood by him through 
' weal and woe, he was in truth far from heart-broken at the 
I thought of a separation from them. 

I But the deacon had not thought of one thing — that the 
' new coat would need shapeliness — and Rug was quite above 
carrying about with him such tradesman-like things as dol- 
lars and cents. Besides, there was not a tailor in Alderbroolc 
who would trust him. Nothing daunted, however, our hero 
shouldered his cloth and marched to every door. It was of 
no use ; every shop was overstocked v/ith work, and poor 
Rug was in a quandary. But at last a bright thought came. 
He would n't have his coat made by a clumsy awkward man, 
not he. Women's delicate fingers were far nimbler, and there 
was not a prettier woman within fifty miles of Alderbrook 
than the pale, sweet. creature, who occupied the tmy cottage 
at the foot of the hill near the toll-gate. 

Beautiful, indeed, was young Nelly Tinsley '■ more beauti- 

I ful now than when, decked in the gayest finery the shops of 

Alderbrook afforded, she moved among us without a shadow 

on her brow. Now sad thoughts had drawn lines upon her 



184 RUG RAFFLES. 

face painfully intelligible ; the blue veins crossed her temples 
with unusual distinctness ; her eyes were dimmed with nig 1 
watching, and her small hand had grown thin and half-trai- 
parent. How had the blithe, ruddy daughter of farmer Bly : 
changed ; Nelly Bly had been a bright, fun-loving girl, who ^ 
was petted and indulged until she grew wilful and spurned j 
every rein but that of love. She yielded to her father because ; 
she loved him ; but when a stronger love came to her lieart 
she forgot her obedience to the first. Young Arthur Tinsley 
smoothed back her hair, and told her how dear was every 
golden thread to him ; pressed her pretty hand between hia 
own ; looked into her eyes until they grew dreamy as his ; 
kissed the smile from her bright lip ; and finally unlocked a 
fountain of delicious tears which had till now slumbered deep 
down in her nature. Who would not grow familiar with tears 
must never love ; who would not love must barter all the 
wealth of the measureless depths of the human heart for the 
bubble which dances on its surface. The bubble went from 
Nelly's heart, the glitter from her lip ; and up, gushing from 
the rich depths below, came a fountain never more to be sealed, 
not even in eternity. Love made the spirit of Nelly Bly 
meek, but it made it strong too. So when the stubborn old 
farmer told her that if she became the wife of the beggarly 
artist, Tinsley, his door should be forever closed against her, 
she turned, and, with a touching, beautiful faith, added her 
hand to her heart's gift. What a holy thing is that love 
which, closing the eyes upon a brilliant future, turns to low- 
liness and clouds, and whispers to the beloved one " only thee 
and heaven ! " I know there are men of cold theories who 
would prove to me that Nelly Bly acted far from right, and I 
should be speechless before them ; but when they are away 
with their arguments I cannot remember what they have said ; 
and so I find myself pronouncing the love of our meek-eyed, 
white-browed neighbor, a beautiful and a holy thing. 

Farmer Bly had no other child, and so, after Nelly's mar- 
riage, the great farm-house became a desolate place, and he 
so surly and ill-natured that children ran and hid themselves 



RUG RAFFLES. 185 

at the sound of his voice. At first Nelly Tinsley was very 
proud of her husband, for she knew well how to appreciate 
his genius ; and she was delighted to find that she could aid 
in its development by soothing and encouragement. But soon 
pride began to lose itself in anxiety. Trials were in the way, 
and he grew irritable ; trials increased, and he bent beneath 
them ; still others came, and health and spirits yielded. A 
strong man could scarce have wrestled with such a fortune ; 
but Arthur Tinsley had the helpless simplicity of a child and 
the sensitiveness of a woman. For a while poor Nelly strug- 
gled on cheerfully and uncomplainingly; and then, as un- 
complainingly, but with a heart-ache written in every line of 
(her face, she came with her sick husband and dying child 
;back to Alderbrook. Oh, how changed was that bright young 
■face with the merry heart-glow lighting up either cheek ! 
Could that pale, fragile creature be Nelly Ely? The rugged 
old farmer turned from her despairing cry, and shut the door 
against her with an oath ; and for an hour did poor Nelly lie, 
like one dead, at the roots of the white rose-bushes among 
iWhich she had spent her bird-like hours before she knew sor- 
Irow. At last she arose and reeled back to the village ; not 
'quite broken-hearted, for her husband was yet left to her ; and 
though he was now but the wreck of the impassioned, enthu- 
siastic, heartful Arthur Tinsley, that shattered wreck was far 
dearer to her than the noble, scatheless structure. Her heart 
had grown to him in their humiliation. Was she not his 
world as he was hers? Immeasurably blest was young Nelly 
Tinsley even in her misery; and as she knelt by the sick 
couch of her husband that night, and soothed his aching head, 
and listened to his low tones, sometimes querulous, sometimes 
melting with tenderness, there was not one act of her life 
toward him she would have recalled. Some people made 
mention of the fact that there had been no parental blessing 
on the union, and shook their heads, remarking that " such 
things were always punished sooner or later;" but Nelly 
would have stared at them in bewilderment. Surely there 
was nothing like punishment in her lot. She had certainly 
VOL. n. 16* 



1S6 RUG RAFFLES. 

suffered very deeply, but it was with him ; and could all her 
father's lands buy a single hour of that time made invaluable 
by love ? Why, there was a blessedness in her very suffer- 
ings, consecrated as they were to a holy affection ; and while 
she was wearing out life in poverty and lowliness, she would 
not have exchanged for a diadem her sacred wealth of heart. 
"Where the shadows rest the violets spring freshest and sweet- 
est. If the sunlight must needs kiss the perfume from my 
violets. Heaven keep me ever in the shadow. We are way- 
ward children, and do not always know Avhat is good for us ; 
but we have a Father above, who, when he takes from us the 
dross and tinsel, blesses us with such things as the angels 
have. When our first mother went out of Eden in sorrow, 
she carried an Eden in her heart ; there are some who live in 
an Eden now, but their hearts are barren. 

Nelly Tinsley found a home with an old woman, to whom 
she had been kind in better days ; and the villagers buried her 
child ; and then she was comparatively forgotten. Her hus- 
band sometimes rose from his couch long enough to toy a little 
Avith his pencil, but the most trifling efforts were usually repaid 
by long, dreary days of illness ; then he would become peevish, 
talk of starving and of doctor's bills, beg them to let him die, 
for he was all that kept Nelly from wealth and happiness, and 
bitterly bewail his folly in ever having deprived her of a 
home. Nelly answered cheeringly every murmur but the 
last ; but that scarce sincere regret Avas always dissipated by 
her tears. Then came the words of tenderness, which turned 
Nelly's sad heart into a habitation of subdued, sorrow-shaded 
bliss. The old woman with whom Nelly had found a home, 
supported herself by her needle, and so the young wife was 
soon initiated into its more substantial mysteries. 

Rug Raffles had no hope of inducing dame Gaskill to make i 
his coat, for he was quite aware that his credit was not very 
high with her ; but Nelly Tinsley probably had many dreary, 
unoccupied hours ; and he argued, as he wended his way to 
her humble door, that he should be doing her a great favor 
by furnishing her with employment. j 



RUG RAFFLES. 187 

"Nothing like industry to keep trouble away — so I've 
heard say;" soliloquized Rug Raffles, as he trundled his bur- 
ly corpus over the little strip of tan-bark at the road side. 
"Industry! ha! ha! That 's why /don't have trouble, I sup- 
pose. Ho ! ha ! A little job for the squire to-night, just to 
keep him from sublimating on the top of his big stilts — ura ! 
only a trifle ;" and Rug Raffles winked and nodded, and 
i looked about him as though he had been making confidants 
!of the fence and bushes. "Well, / am a philanthropist; 
i there 's no disputing that. Parson Brown is a pretty good — 
;a pretty good man — but he wouldn't crawl out of his bed of 
a dark night to benefit the public in the way I do, I reckon. 
I Yes, the pwWic — that's the word — I'm a public benefac- 
I TOR, ha ! ha ! They say a laugh is the best medicine. I make 
everybody laugh, and so I 'm the biggest doctor in Alder- 
brook. So, so — this is the house. Not quite a palace, for 
sure. Wonder if Miss Nelly Ely don't want to get back into 
the old farm-house — seems to me that was rather more com- 
fortable." 

When Rug Raffles made known his errand, he found, as he 
had anticipated, dame Gaskill quite overstocked with work. 

" Can't make it, dame 1 " 

"No; my customers — " 

" Rayther queer ! " and Rug regarded the empty table and 
work-shelf, with an expression peculiarly quizzical. 

" But my customers — " 

" Supposing I should wait a week or two?" 

" Oh, it would make no difference ; I have pile on pile of 
work; and my customers — " 

-• Well, now. Dame Gaskill, could you find time to make 
it next year ? " interrupted Rug, fbcing his peaked eyes on 
her with a kind of mesmeric stare, and puffing out his full 
cheeks ;" I like your work amazingly, dame, and I am willing 
to be accommodating, I am." 

" I think I can make it." The words came in soft, tremu- 
lous tones, from the farther end of the long narrow room, 
which Rug immediately whispered himself was occupied by 



18S RUG RAFFLES. 

sweet Nelly Bly. The speaker was leaning over a couch, 
with one thin hand resting caressingly on a brow even 
thinner and paler than itself; and, as she turned her face to 
speak, Rug, careless as he was, discerned the traces of tears 
on her now flushed cheek, and knew by her eager tones that 
his favor was duly esteemed. 

" You ! " exclaimed dame Gaskill. «' Why, you never 
made a coat in your life ! Think of stitching the collar, and 
v/orking the button-holes, and pressing it off, and all that. 
No, no ! You can't make it." 

" If — if you would show me," began Nelly, hesitatingly, 
" if you would show me, perhaps — " 

" But I can't show you — I shall have no time for showing 
you." 

" I should like to do it, indeed !" burst from the lips of the 
poor wife, as she clasped her pale hands helplessly over her 
face, and the tears gushed like a shower of precious gems — 
less precious they than those pure heart-jewels ! — from be- 
tween her attenuated fingers. 

" And you shall do it ! " exclaimed Rug, setting down his 
foot emphatically. 

A look of gratitude and a sob was the answer. 

" Stitching the collar, — " began the unrelenting dame. 

" The collar need n't be stitched. There is no use in 
spoiling the young woman's eyes stitching collars. Who 
ever looks at my collar, I should like to know ? " 

" And the button-holes, — " continued the pertinacious 
dame. 

Don't want button-holes — won't have button-holes — 
button-holes always break out and m-ake a great bother. 
Button-holes are among the ornamentals, and I 'm principled 
against ornamentals." 

" Lud-a-mercy, Mr. Raflles ! " 

" It 's no use, dame. Right about face ! hands and eyes 
down ! The young woman shall do it." 

" But, Mr. Raffles—" 

* I tell ye she shall do it ! " 



RUG RAFFLES. 189 

" It will never do to give it up so," thought Dame Gaskill; 
though, to tell the truth, she had been watching in great anx- 
iety all the morning for a customer ; and so she rose and 
joined Nelly at the other end of the room. Rug did not hear 
the first remarks ; but, after a few moments, entreatingly and 
deprecatingly came the words, " Oh, it is necessary — it is 
and he could n't have the heart to keep back the money from 
me." 

" Certainly not if he had it ; but Rug Raffles has n't 
known the color of a coin this many a day, I '11 warrant me.'' 

" It is a solemn fact, dame," whispered Rug to himself, at 
the same time fumbling in his empty pockets. 

" He will get the money, I am sure he will ; he looks 
good-natured, and I will trust him ; I am certain he will 
get it." 

" If he only could, mistress pretty-lips," was the aside of 
Rug. " but where in the name of old shoes and ragged elbows, 
is it to come from ? That's what I should just like to know." 

" You will lose it," pursued the dame. 

•' Heaven forbid ! and he so ill, and so worried when I 
take the needle." 

" It is a great pity you should worry him." 

" Oh, I will not. I will do it while he sleeps. He al- 
ways has a long sleep after midnight." 

" And kill yourself?" 

" Oh no, I am so well and strong ! " 

The dame sighed; and Rug drew the cufF of his coat 
across his eyes — probably to shade them from the sunlight. 

" But you do not need this money just now ; you paid the 
doctor's bill yesterday, and there is plenty of arrow-root left 
for these two or three days yet ; of course there is no danger 
that you and I will starve. Just Avait patiently and some job 
will come worth having before you need the money." 

Nelly looked around to assure herself that the invalid 
slept, and then answered softly, " He asked me for paints this 
morning, and it was a hard thing to deny him. I never have 
done that before. Medicine may drive the pain away, but he 



190 RUG RAFFLES. 

will go wild if poverty keep him from the exercise of his art 
The paints are worth more to him than medicines." 

" Why, he couldn't use them, if — " 

" No .matter for that, he inust have them, if I go out into 
the streets and beg." 

" Nonsense, child ! I have no patience with you. You 
will kill yourself to indulge his whims. You got this terri- 
ble cough sitting up in the cold room to earn the money for 
that canvass ; and then the ungrateful fellow pushed his foot 
through it just because some of his figurations didn't suit 
him. There, don't cry, child — don't cry ! I didn't mean to 
hurt your feelings. Sick folks must be indulged, I suppose, 
and Mr. Tinsely is n't always so ; but I must say you are a 
nice creature to take his high-handed doings so sweetly, 
when he is put out. And I must say it is rather hard for 
you to kill yourself" for a whimsey." 

Rug Raffles had found his chair rather uncomfortable dur- 
ing the conference of the two women, and particularly since 
in their earnestness they had allowed their voices to rise to a 
hearing pitch. He put the right leg over the left knee, then 
the left leg over the right knee, trotted his foot, drummed 
with his hands on the crown of his hat, hitched, fidgetted, 
whistled, and finallj'-, in the midst of a pathetic remonstrance 
from Nelly, sprang to his feet outright. 

" I '11 tell yoa what, young woman — ahem ! young woman 
— mistress pretty-speech — I tell you, I don't want that ccat. 
I hate new coats ; they always pinch and set a fellow up, 
like a pound of starch, and — I should feel like a gentleman 
in a new coat, and I object to being a gentleman ; I could n't 
condescend." 

By the time Rug had delivered himself of his speech he 
was at the door. 

" But the cloth, Mr. Raffles ! Don't go away without the 
cloth," exclaimed dame Gaskill, following her queer customer 
with the package. 

" Don't bother me with the cloth, dame. D'ye think I 'm 
an errand boy to be running about the streets with bundles ? 
Out of my way, and take the cloth back into the house ! But 



RUG RAFFLES. 191 

look'eo, old woman, some folks say I 'm the devil, so look 
out how you put your fingers inside that bundle. It 's — 
it 's," and by this time Rug Raffles was clambering up the 
hill, very nearly breathless, " it 's for Nelly Bly to buy paints 
with." 

" A new coat ! " soliloquized Rug, as he seated himself on 
the front steps of the nearest grocery : " a new coat must be 
a terrible bore. I should n't sit down so easy-like in it as 1 
do in you, old friend ;" and he hugged his seedy satine* as in 
all probability he would have hugged a sweet-heart. " How 
strangely my elbows would feel in a new coat, poor things' 
as fixed-up as I used to feel when grandmamma took me 
a-visiting ; and my shoulders, too — they are free-born citizens 
and never could submit to being put in the stocks, not they. 
But what a villain old Bly must be I The girl would actu- 
ally have got the blind side of w.e, if I would have let her 
— but then it is n't in the nature of us laughing philosophers 
to mind much about the weepers. Poor thing ! how pitifully 
she talks of that rascally husband of hers ; and he leads her a 
dog's life, I 've no doubt. It 's a fancy some husbands have 
to beat and bruise about, as though there was nobody in the 
big world but themselves ; and I 'm glad I 've kept clear of 
'em. I 'm glad, I mean, that I don't happen to have a wife 
to tyrannize over ; for I should be a shocking bad fellow in 
that case, I know I should. Wouldn't I flourish my shil- 
lelah, though ? Hurrah ! " 

After making a grand flourish, and explaining to the in- 
quisitive bystanders that he was only cudgelling Mrs. Rug- 
gles Raffles that was to be, our hero again seated himself on 
the steps and immediately fell into a state of profound medi- 
tation. Rug was apt to be contemplative when he was not 
uproariously social ; and, as the result of his ponderings was 
sure to follow close on the heels of their indulgence, no one 
ever offered even a penny for his thoughts. When the half 
hour was passed, Rug arose and shook himself like Samson. 
Probably he was satisfied that his strength was with him ; for 
immediately his face put on all its waggery ; his half-shut 



192 RUG RAFFLES. 

pointed eyes looked as though made to pilfer sermons ; his 
mouth, which greAV astonishingly wide, held a merry thought 
in each corner ; even his large nose had an expression about 
it which added not a little to the comic drollery of his phiz; 
and he alternately rubbed his hands and hugged himself with 
infinite satisfaction. As soon as his first self-congratulations 
were over, he began trundling him.self along the street, his 
heavy locomotives seeming to find the utmost difficulty in 
keeping pace with him. 

Farmer Bly had been more grufT since the return of his 
daughter than ever. He was obliged to employ men-ser- 
vants, (or rather gentleman helps,) within doors, for no 
woman would stay in his kitchen ; and both house and field 
were often witnesses of desperate quarrels between employer 
and the employed. On this day he was going his usual 
rounds among his workmen, when, as he chanced to draw 
near a forest, his attention was arrested by hearing his own 
name. 

" I say, uncle, I should like to own this farm of old Ely's." 

" Yes, it is a fine farm ; but little good does it bring to the 
owner. He is the most miserable old wasp in existence ; for, 
fool-like, he thought to sting his daughter, but instead of that 
he stung himself, and has been smarting ever since." 

" But he has a grand farm for all that." 

*' Yes, a grand farm ; but what good will it do him ? 
They '11 shovel his old bones into the grave one of these 
days, and his hard earnings will go to those who will be glad 
the old pest is out of the way." 

" Probably his pauper daughter will come in for a share 
then." 

The listener ground his teeth and clenched his fist. Per- 
haps he was enraged at the thought of his money going to 
poor Nelly. Perhaps the idea of his daughter's being a pau- ! 
per was new to him. 

" Not she," returned the other voice ; " she 's pretty much 
done with money and pauperism both, I reckon; and he'll 
soon have her ghost to worry him out of the world, I can tell 



& 



RUG RAFFLES. 193 

you. She won't come near him now though she 's starving, 
poor thing ! but bones which have been in the grave are not 
so nice about such matters. She will haunt the old knave, 
night and day, I '11 warrant me." 

" What a pity the miserable old Jew has n't a grandchild, 
since he 's resolved to disinherit his daughter." 

" Ay, he might have had. A finer boy never gladdened 
mother's heart than little Harry." 

Farmer Bly gave a sudden start, and his face changed to an 
ashen hue. 

" It was a strange thing enough for her to name him after 
one who had treated her so shamefully ; but women will have 
queer notions, and he was the very picture of his rascally 
grandfather. That was enough to make Nelly hate him ; 
but instead of that, she only loved him the more. Wolves 
and tigers take care of their little ones, but old Bly left his to 
starve. It is well though that the baby died ; for the sooner 
such a race becomes extinct the better." 

" And do you think Tinsley is really dying ? " 

" No doubt of it. Three murders are a pretty heavy load 
for one man's conscience." 

Farmer Bly unconsciously uttered a groan ; but the con- 
versationists, who seemed in no wise disturbed by the sound, 
continued : 

" I have heard that he actually refused his grandson a 
shroud." ' 

" It is true ; and I should n't wonder if that very deed con- 
demned his own bones to rot above ground. Such things do 
happen sometimes." 

" Think of pretty Nelly Ely's being a beggar in Alder- 
brook ! There was a time when the Blys carried their heads 
as high as the highest ; but now they are quite down in the 
mouth. Only two left; the one disgraced in everybody's 
eyes by his unnatural hard-heartedness, and the other a pau- 
•oer ! Well, it is one comfort to us poor fellows to know that 
ve all come out about the same in the end. Any way, I 
would rather be in my grave than old Bly's." 

VOL. u. 17 



194 RUG BAFFLES. 

" Old Antoine's would be a palace to that, I fancy." 

" Does Mistress Nelly ever speak of her father ? " 

" Yes ; when she hears him called a villain, as everybody 
does call him, she takes on dreadfully, and says he was a good 
father to her once, and she will love him now for what he has 
been. Women are always fools about these matters, yoii 
know." 

" And Tinsley ? " 

" Oh, he must indulge his pretty wife, of course, and would . 
swear that the old rascal was an angel if it would only win a I 
smile from her. They say he even painted a portrait of him, ' 
from memory ; and, savage as the old rebel is, made him look 
quite amiable. They sold everything else when they were 
starving, but they wouldn't part with that." 

A loud sob burst from the overcharged bosom of farmer 
Bly ; he leaned for a moment against a tree, and then hurried 
forward with almost the bound of a boy. 

" He, he ! ha, ha, ha ! " The laugh was smothered, but it 
evidently came from a very merry heart. And oh, what a 
face was that peering above the clump of dog-wood bushes ! 
Rug Raffles had never looked so entirely convulsed with mirth 
before. 

" I 've done him ! I 've done him ! The old fox is fast in 
the trap ! Hurra ! hurra ! Hip, hip, hip, hurra ! The birds 
don't know anything or they 'd split their throats a-hurraing 
and a-laughing. A'n't I a public benefactor ? — no ; this time 
I 'm a private one ; and should n't have let the right hand 
know what the left one did, only that they had to talk to each 
other. I should like to know who could do the thing up 
neater. Pretty well for you. Rug Raffles. Come to think 
Miss Tinsley, I reckon I '11 just take back that coat. You 
don't seem to need it at all just now. Ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha ! 
I would n't have believed that he \»"ould nibble the bait so 
soon, the old fox; though I gave him two or three pretty 
tough morsels, to be sure. He could n't get round that com» 
ing down of the family ; it hurt his feelings. Ah, that 's the 
dagger that I stabbed him with. That ' went to the witals/ 






RUG RAFFLES. 195 

as the saying is. And then I come it over him with the soft. 
Lucky enough that I heard about that picture ; that was what 
did him at last — hurra! Hurra for fun and Rug Raffles I 
I '11 trick dame Gaskill into making the coat, I will. As 
though a man was any the worse for an empty pocket ! She 
to say it too, the old owl ! and she has n't a red cent to her 
name ! I '11 trick her ! " And down sat generous Rug Raffles 
to devote an hour of his precious time to the prudent Mrs. 
Gaskill. 

It was a bright afternoon ; and Arthur Tinsley sat up in 
his bed, leaning against an inverted chair. His wife, as ever, 
was by his side, and bending over him with mingled anxiety 
and tenderness. 

" I should like some paints, Nelly, if you can get them," he 
said in an earnest tone. 

" I will try, dear ; but you must n't worry if I am two or 
three days about it. This hand is not very strong, and it must 
not busy itself too soon. When you are well again, I have 
a grand scheme for you." 

The invalid smiled faintly, and then, in a tone of touching 
tenderness, answered, " I shall never be well till the sod is 
over my bosom, Nelly. I see how all this is to end ; I am 
growing weaker and weaker every day; but there is one thing 
that I must do — I cannot die till it is done. There is but 
one face for me in the wide universe — if the angels in heaven 
do not have it, I cannot love them. I must paint your face 
and take it into the grave with me." 

" You will not die, Arthur, you cannot die ! The doctor 
said you would get well if I could only make you happy. 
Won't you be happy with me, Arthur ? " 

" We will both be happy when we have gone home to 
heaven, Nelly ; but here, never. Nothing has ever prospered 
with us since the day of our marriage." 

" We have loved each other." 

" Ay, overwhelmingly. It has been thy curse, my Nelly 
and when I am gone — " 

A. tremendous knock at the door, and the remainder of the 



196 RUG RAFFLES. 

sentence hung suspended on the invalid's tongue, while dame 
Gaskill's head bobbed out of the window, and was as quickly 
withdrawn. 

" Old farmer Ely, as I live I Don't be in a flurry, children I 
Oh ! oh ! I 'm a most scared out of my senses. Don't you 
open the door, Nelly ; I 'm afraid he has come for no good — 
wait a bit, wait a bit, child ; I 'd better open it myself. Lud- 
a-marcy ! she has no fear of anything." 

Nelly drew the latch-string tremblingly ; her cheek was 
flushed, but her head erect. The first glance was enough, 
for the rough, manly face was full of eloquence. 

" My father ! " 

The old man's arms were outspread; and the trembling 
daughter nestled in them like a wearied dove. 

" The old house is desolate, Nelly ; I cannot live there 
alone any longer, and you must come back to me. "What, 
tears! you didn't cry, Nelly, when I shut the door in your 
face to drown what you were saying of your dead baby. But 
I didn't shut out your voice, I heard it day and night — day 
and night, in the house and in the field — I couldn't get rid 
of it anywhere. Don't cry any more, Nelly — don't cry! 
your tears make my heart ache. If you had told me that the 
boy's name was Harry — only told me, I might — but I don't 
know, I 'm an old tiger. Will you come and live with me, 
Nelly?" 

The daughter raised her flushed face from the pillowing 
bosom and pointed to the bed. 

" Yes, darling ; bring him with you ; the house is big 
enough for all of us. He stole my only child, but — well, it 
is natural — it is natural ! They say he is dying, too, but we 
will not let him. Money gives skill to the doctors ; and you 
shall both be well and happy. These pretty cheeks of yours 
must get some fulness and color. Nelly Bly can't be an 
invalid, nor — nor — curses on those who have said it — a 
pauper ! And now, Nelly, darling, bring me the picture that 
poor Arthur Tinsley painted, and you wouldn't part with 
when you were starving. Ah, you did love your old father 



RUG RAFFLES. 197 

after all, though you left him for a stranger ! That almost 
broke my heart, and it was the heart-break which made a sav- 
age of me ; but — but you were right, and Arthur Tinsley is 
a noble fellow. He loved you when your own flesh and blood 
cast you off." 

" He, he ! ha, ha, ha ! " No one in dame Gaskill's cottage 
heard tne laugh, or saw the shaggy round head peering through 
the open window, with the eyes set corner-wise, and the lips 
drawn up, displaying an immense gash recognizable by all 
who had ever seen it, as the mouth of Rug Raffles. 

" Ha, ha, ha ! Hurra ! hurra for fun and Rug Raffles ! 
Taste again, old fox ! Two such strawberries don't grow on 
every stem. Ha, ha ! Mistress pretty-lips, I reckon I '11 just 
take that coat." 

VOL. ir. 17* 



198 



THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 

See, mother, see ! we are coming nearer and nearer 
every moment. It is a beautiful town — so bright and cheer- 
ful ! and everything looks so fresh about it ! Oh ! it does 
one's heart good to see the land again. And that is Fort 
James, perched on that high point, and looking down as 
though it were the guardian of the waters. We shall be very 
happy here, in this charming home! — You look sad, mother." 
So spake a slight, dark-haired stripling, with the warm hue 
of a southern sun upon his cheek : as, leaning over the ves- 
sel's side, while she rode proudly into the harbor of New 
York, he fixed his glowing eye upon the long hoped-for asy- 
lum of the new world. The young queen of western com- 
merce was indeed bright that morning ; with the pretty fort 
for a crown, and skirts sweeping back into the green shadow, 
all jewelled over with happy hearth-stones. Indeed, never 
was town more finely spread out for a sea-view ; and the yel- 
low Holland brick, of which many of the buildings were con- 
structed, and the mingled red and black tiles which covered the 
roofs of more, with the glow of the sunlight upon them, made 
it as gay as a sachem's bride. The broad banner waved and 
flaunted cheerily from the top of the tall flag-stafl^, seeming to 
promise protection to the stranger and the defenceless ; and 
as the ship glided majestically over the just rippling waters, , 
long and loud were the cheers that arose from the multitude 
collected on the shore ; and the formal salutation from the fort 
met with a ready response from the hearty crew. All now 
was confusion on board — a glad, joyous confusion; pleased 
exclamations fell from one lip, only to be snatched up and 
echoed by another ; and handkerchiefs fluttered in the air, in 
reply to like signals from waiting friends on the land. 



THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 199 

' You look sad, mother," repeated the boy, lowenng his 
voice, till its soft tones contrasted strangely with the univer- 
sal gayety, and turning upon her a glance of tenderly respect- 
ful inquiry. 

"Ulfeli so, I should be ungrateful, my son. God has 
guided us from a land of persecution to the garden which he 
has planted for his oppressed. But you spoke of home, Fran- 
cois, and I thought of our vine-covered hills, and of the sunny 
valley, on tlie banks of the Loire, where I have left sleep- 
ing all but you." 

" Do not think of it again, my mother." 

The woman pressed her hand for a moment against her 
forehead, as though stifling, meanwhile, some deep emotion ; 
then said, in a different tone, " If we only had that lost -cas- 
ket, Francois ! The captain has not always been kind to us, 
and I dread meeting him now — he has almost seemed to 
doubt the truth of our story. Heaven help us ! but it will be 
a long time before we can pay this passage money ! " 

" Never fear for that, mother ; money comes almost by the 
asking, they say, here, and I shall soon be a man, now. I will 
build you a little cabin under the shelter of the trees. The 
men have told me just how it is done, and I long to be at work 
this very moment. I will build you a nice cabin, and I will 
kill game which you shall cook for us two, and we will sit 
down at evening, just as we used to sit in our pretty cottage 
in France, before that horrible persecution, and you shall — 
Don't look so troubled, mother; you are thinking of this ugly 
affair of the money, now. I can trade in furs, and — do — I 
hardly know what, but just what- the other settlers do to get 
rich in a day. You must remember that I am not a little boy, 
now, but can take care of myself, and you too ; and they tell 
me that the term Huguenot is an honorable one here. Oh ! 
we shall be very happy ! think you not so, mother ? " 

" Anywhere, with thee, my noble boy ! " returned the mat- 
ron, gazing fondly upon the eloquent young face turned so 
earnestly to hers. " With freedom to worship God as he has 
bidden, and with thee, my last earthly hope and trust, beside 
me, what more could I ask or desire ? " 



200 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 

The ship had anchored in the bay, and hurriedly the sea- 
wearied passengers were landing. Many citizens had come 
on board ; and, on the shore, friend grasped the hand of friend, 
with such cordial words of greeting as the first heart-bound 
carried to the lip. Among all glad ones, none were gladder 
than the enthusiastic French lad. With bared head, and joy- 
flashing eye, he stood beside his mother watching the happy 
throng, as though in their happiness he could forget his own 
exile. But that was not the source of his animation. He 
was looking to the future — his young spirit buoyed up by 
hopes as yet unintelligible to himself, but brighter for the 
very veil which covered them ; and his heart beating with the 
tenderness which was all centred on one human being — his 
widowed, and, but for him, childless mother. 

" Stand here a moment, and I will see where we can be set 
ashore. I am longing to plant my foot on that spot of green." 
So saying, the youth mingled in the crowd, and the widow 
turned her eyes from the view of her new home, to follow, 
with the fond pride of a mother, his graceful figure as it 
moved, all unlike the others, about the deck. In a few mo- 
ments he returned, the masses of raven hair, which had been 
flung back to allow the fragrant land-breezes to play upon his 
temples, half-shading his pale cheek, and his white lip quiv- 
ering with agitation. 

" Francois ! what is it, my son ? speak ! ' 

"Oh! it is too much — too much! I shall die here, so 
near the land ! " and the boy, forgetting his boast of manhood, 
leaned over the railing and wept passionately. 

The mother placed her hand soothingly upon his glossy cuns, 
which shook as though the throbbing heart below had been in 
them ; and waited patiently his explanation. 

"We must stay here, mother — and I cannot live in this 
horrid ship another night, I am sure I cannot." 

" We have spent many happy nights and days in it, my 
son," returned the widow, softly ; " but why must we stay 
now ? Who detains us ? " 

" We cannot land till the ship charges are paid — so they 
have told me ; and that will be never r— never." 



THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 201 

A look of troubled surprise spread itself over the widow's 
countenance ; but still her spirit was in subjection to the care- 
ful tenderness of the mother. " I am sorry for your sake, 
Francois ; but cheer up, my son ! It will do them no good 
to detain us here, and they will let us go in the morning — I 
am sure they will." 

" If they would set me on the land, I would work like a 
galley-slave, but they should receive the uttermost farthing." 

" We will tell them so — we will tell them so. Cheer up, 
Francois, and let us look upon the city again. It is but a 
little while till morning." 

Francois seemed to make an effort for his mother's sake, 
and raised his head ; but how changed was the expression of 
those two faces, as they again turned towards the land ! 

Only a few feet from the exiles, had stood, for the last ten 
minutes, a person who regarded them closely, though by them 
entirely unnoticed. His mild blue eyes, and fair, good-hu- 
mored face, bespoke him a Hollander ; and the massive silver 
buckles at his knees and on his shoes proclaimed him an 
individual of some consequence, which was farther confirmed 
by the deferential manner of those around him. A close 
observer would have detected a strange mixture of the child 
and the man in that face. The eye was soft and gentle as a 
woman's, while the mouth evinced a singular degree of firm- 
ness and decision ; and, though the very spirit of benevolence 
rested on the retreating forehead, with its crown of half-silvered 
hair, the bold determination, with which the broad nostril was 
now and then expanded, contradicted the bare supposition of 
weakness. His attention had been attracted by the interest 
mg foreigners ; he had seen the boy bound, like a freed deer, 
from the side of his mother, and return drooping and dispirited ; 
and he had seen that mother stifling some deep emotion for 
the sake of her boy. It was evident that he did not under- 
stand their language, for he watched them as though studying 
out the cause of their sorrow, until they turned away their 
faces; and then, with a look of sympathy, he left them, prob 



202 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 

ably believing them to be of the number who had crossed the 
ocean m search of friends, to find them only in their graves. 

Two days passed, and still the lone Huguenot strangers 
were prisoners in the ship, in sight of the green earth and of 
cheerful firesides. 

" This," exclaimed the widow, as she crouched in the cabin, 
desolate and heart-sick, " this is worse than all the rest — not 
f6r me — J could bear it — 1 could bear anything alone; but 
my poor poor boy ! " 

She was roused by a slow, dragging step, so unlike the 
elastic spring of her idol, that, but for its lightness, she would 
not have recognized it. 

" Mother, it is decided — I have just learned our fate ;" and 
the fragile boy sunk, like a crushed blossom, at her feet. 

The widow tried to assume a tone of encouragement. 
" What is it, Francois ? anything is better than this close 
ship, with the green earth and shady trees so near us. I can- 
not bear to see you droop and pine, my love — if they would 
but give you back the strength and pride this sorrow has 
stolen — if I could but see your bright head erect again — " 

" It never can be, mother; better that we both were dead 
— dead in our graves in France ! Oh ! why did we ever 
come away ? There they would give us nothing worse than 
a dungeon or a coffin ; nere they will not let us so hide our- 
selves — will not let us die. What think you, mother?" 
and now, the boy, dashing the hair back from his forehead, 
changed his mournful tone to one of mad energy. " In an 
hour or two, we are to be exposed in their market-place, in 
the open street — sold like their Holland plough-horses and 
Utrecht heifers — " 

The widow's life might have gone out from her, in that one 
wild scream of heart-piercing agony. She was prepared for 
toil— for suflfering in almost every shape. She could have 
borne even slavery, herself; but her boy, her proud, high- 
hearted boy ! the beautiful blossom that God had given to 
bless her bereavement! the bird, that, if but an autumn breeze 
shook the roof-tree rudely, had nestled in her bosom for pro- 



THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 203 

lection! — her frail, but noble boy, so delicate, so gentle to 
her, yet so spirited ! — should he, too, be crushed beneath a 
foot triple-shod with iron ? Should his fair, polished limbs, 
through which she had so often traced the flow of the red life- 
current, which her lip had touched, and her loving eye admired, 
canker beneath the heavy chain of a life-lasting bondage ? 
Should that eagle eye grow cold in childhood 1 that bright 
lip forget its smile ? that free, gladsome heart become the 
grave of all its freshly budding wealth of feeling ? Was there 
no appeal ? Could she not find, in the crowd which thronged 
that busy city, a single human heart which she could excite 
to something like sympathy ? that would be content to crush 
Aer to the earth, wring her spirit till every cord should snap 
asunder, and save her boy ? Alas ! what could be done by a 
stranger, a lone, feeble woman, confined to her prison in the 
ship ? If she could be led forth to the haunts of men, and 
they would listen, those who could understand her language 
were fugitives like herself, and probably nearly as helpless. 
So the miserable Frenchwoman crouched upon the low settle 
in entire helplessness, and moaned as though her spirit would 
have passed on each breath. Minute after minute, minute 
after minute of slowly moving time went by ; and still the 
sobbing boy rested his forehead upon his mother's knees ; and 
still the mother clasped her hands, and moaned on. 

There was a quick, heavy tread, upon the cabin stairs ; but 
neither looked up. It came nearer, and paused beside them ; 
but the woe-laden exiles moved not ; they had no ear for any- 
thing but their own misery. 

" I have good news for you, madam," commenced a some- 
what harsh voice, hesitatingly, "good news — do you hear 
me-? can you listen ?" 

The widow raised an alarmed eye to the face of the speaker, 
and clung, with a desperate grasp, to her son. 

The boy's apprehension was quicker. " Good news ! 
What ? In God's name, do not mock us ! " 

" I am sent by one, who cannot speak our l-mguagd, to 
say — " 



204 THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 

The man paused a moment to note the effect of his words. 

" Speak on ! " exclaimed Francois ; " you torture us." 

" To say that your ship charges are paid ; and you are free, 
free to go wherever you list." 

The widow stared in eager doubt, her hand still grasping 
firmly the arm of her boy. But Francois ! the drooping blos- 
som of the moment previous ! How the eloquent blood came 
rushing to his cheek, and how his dark eye flashed with, 
awakened hope ! Not a single exclamation broke from hia 
lip ; but he stood like a proud young eagle pluming his wings 
for flight. 

It was several minutes before the exiles were prepared to 
listen to an explanation of their good fortune. "When they 
did, they were told simply that a benevolent merchant, endeared 
to the common people of New York for his many virtues, had 
seen them on the day of their arrival, and had found his sym- 
pathies deeply enlisted by their evident disappointment, and 
the sorrow it occasioned. Afterwards, he lost sight of them 
until the decision of the tribunal, which would have made 
them slaves ; when, finding his influence insufficient to pre- 
vent the disgraceful proceedings, he had stepped in with his 
purse, and discharged the debt. 

" You are now free to go wherever you like," continued 
the good-natured interpreter, " but you are invited to the house 
of your benefactor, where you will find friends, and a' home 
until you choose to leave it." 

" God bless the noble merchant ! I will be his slave for- 
ever ! " exclaimed Francois, his heart swelling with enthusi- 
astic gratitude. 

The widow's lips moved, and warm, tears, for the first time, 
gushed from her eyes, and rained down over her face ; but 
her voice was too much broken by emotion to convey the sen- 
timent she would have uttered. 

By the dock stood, (his heart in hiS face and that all sun- 
shine,) a blue-eyed, bright-haired youth, with the merchant's 
own forehead, and a lip of lighter and more graceful mould. 
The young Hollander was scarce inferior in beauty, as h^ 



THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS. 205 

waited there to perform his most grateful task, to Francois 
himself. The merchant had been too modest to appear as a 
benefactor in the public street, well known as he was, and he 
had sent his son to bring home the strangers. A snug little 
wagon, such as was commonly used by the better sort of Hol- 
landers, awaited them, and they were soon seated and pro- 
ceeding on their way. As they neared the market-place, and 
the merchant's son caught a glimpse of the crowd assembled, 
(some, uninformed of what had occurred, to witness the sale of 
the helpless strangers, and some to report and expatiate upon 
the generous deed of their townsman,) he instantly gave the 
reins to his horses, and turned his head in an opposite direc- 
tion. There was at first a slight movement in the crowd, face 
after face turning toward the street. Then came a low mur- 
mur, swelling gradually higher and higher, till at last it burst 
into a mighty and universal shout, " Long live the noble 
Leisler ! " " Leisler forever ! " " Leisler forever ! " 
VOL. n. 18 



IDA RAVELIN. 

A FANTASY. " 

"7 SEE rtDthing peculiar about her."' 

Very coolly and complacently dropped the above words from i 
lips which seemed to be totally unaware of the deed of death 
they were doing ; crushing the rare fancies of love's weaving, 
with the same indifference that your horse dyes his coarse 
hoofs in prairie-blossoms, or the follov^'ers of the Prophet treat 
an inconvenient beauty to a coral pillow and a silver coverlet. 
A heart-swell, deeper than a sigh, a quick flushing over of 
the cheeks and forehead, then a closing of the slightly parted 
lips, a drooping of the lids, and a tenderly caressing movement 
of the hands, followed this confession of short-sightedness. 
Oh ! what cold, blind, unappreciative beings fathers are ! As 
though genius never hid itself under a baby-cap! 

"/see nothing peculiar about her." 

The faithless father, as he repeated his observation, brushed 
back the hair from his full, mathematical forehead, and, cast- 
ing on his wife a glance full of pity for her 'weakness, turned 
to a huge folio volume spread open on the table beside him, 
and resumed the business in which he had been interrupted. 
The mother, however, was not abashed, only silenced. She 
passed her fingers over the vein-crossed forehead of her sleep- 
ing child, measuring the distances on it with her lips ; then 
took the fat little hand in her own, still following the purple 
current till it terminated in the rosy-tipped fingers. 

" Direct from the heart," she murmured ; " God help thee, 
my Ida ! " As she spoke, the child opened wide a pair of 
dark, burning eyes, and fixed them on her face with the far- 
reaching expression she had often observed, and which, 
seemed to her indicative of something like " second-sight." 



IDA KAVELIN. 207 

" There ! " exclaimed the mother triumphantly, yet without 
venti'ring to point a finger ; for it seemed as though the child 
read her thoughts. 

" Her eyes a^e certainly very bright ; something like yours, 
Mary." 

" Oh ! you don't see it — you don't see it ' God help her; 
.for genius is a dangerous gift !" 

j *' God help her ! " echoed the father with a half sigh. 
j He meant his wife. 

And what did bring those two strangely assorted people 
^together? Certainly not sympathy. It might have been a 
trick of Dan Cupid's; but even he, with all his perverse 
iblindness, seldom makes such a blunder as that. Besides, 
'they did not look very much like turtle doves ; and nothing 
less than entireness of idolatry, the wildest infatuation, could 
ihave bidden fate to spread the roof over head's so different. 
The marble-browed, marble-hearted philosopher, and the 
Pythoness ! I never saw an improvisatrice ; but I dare say 
that Mary Ravelin looked more like this wild daughter of 
passion and poesy than any being since the days of^ the burn- 
ing-lipped Corinna. Oh ! a superb creature was Mary Rave- 
lin, with her dark, regal brow, and sloe-colored eyes, centred 
by a blazing diamond. And that she, of all peerless ones, 
should be the wife of the sluggish-hearted Thomas Ravelin ! 
How did it come to pass ? Enough that the bird of Jove 
does sometimes consort with the barn-yard fowl — I mean 
when these bipeds are minus the feathers. Plumed things 
keep up the natural distinctions, which the philosopher's 
plucked turkey is striving with all his might to destroy. But 
the most vexatious part of the business was, that Thomas 
Ravelin never knew that he was the possesser of a double 
diamond ; and really rated his wife below other women, in 
proportion as she rose above them. Did Mary submit to the 
thraldom ? Certainly. Like the generality of mankind, she 
did not know herself. She might, at times, have had a kind 
of inward consciousness that heaven had stamped her soul 
iWith a loftier seal than others ; she certainly knew that she 



208 



IDA RAVELIN. 



felt unlike them ; and there was a depth and intensity in her 
nature, a tumultuous sea of passion and pathos that sometimes 
broke over all boundaries, and gave her a momentary power 
and grandeur, acknowledged by all but one. There was 
something in the smile between pity and contempt which 
greeted her at such moments, well calculated to tame the 
sybil. She feared her husband ; not because he was unkind, 
but his glance stilled her gushing heart, and cast a strange 
spell upon her passionate spirit. And Mary Ravelin was far 
from being happy. No undeveloped nature is happy. The 
inward stirring, the aimless restlessness of spirit — oh ! we 
feel what we are, when we do not know it. Neither can a 
misplaced nature be happy : cage the sky-lark, or bring the 
spotted trout to your bower of roses, and see. So, though 
flashes of her real inner self were every day breaking forth 
like summer lightning, Mary Ravelin's higher nature was 
undeveloped; her wings had been clipped; she had been 
borne away out of her native element, and she was conse- 
quently miserable. Well for her that she had one sustaining, 
regulating- principle. But even her religion was unlike her 
husband's. It was the deep, impassioned faith, the high- 
wrought enthusiasm of the martyrs. It was the only field in 
which her lofty nature might revel uncontrolled; in which 
her power of loving might be called into action to its utmost 
stretch; where the high and the beautiful all combined, with 
a harmony to which her own bosom furnished an echo. It 
was this which subdued the impatient soul of Mary Ravelin ; 
made her the careful wife — I had almost said the uncom- 
plaining slave — of a man who believed himself acting a 
kindly part when he drew the chain about her spirit. Who 
dare call this an inferior kind of martyrdom ? 

Ida was romping, still in baby-frock and pinafore, among 
the vines in the garden — now thrusting her white arm among 
the leaves to grasp the bared shoulders of an elder sister, now 
shaking the blossoms above her head till they rained down 
upon her like a shower of colored rain-drops, then creeping 
away under the deep shadows, as a hare would hide itself, 



IDA RAVEUN. 209 

and raising her ringing voice to challenge pursuit. Ida might 
have been a genius, but she was 'no mere spirit-child. There 
was a love of the real, the actual, the earnest, breathing a 
world of life in every turn of her pliant limbs, and in every 
glance of her eye. Whatever might have been swelling and 
shaping itself in the deep recesses of mind, there was a world * 
without that she gloried in, loving it all the more for the key to 
its wijndrous wealth which she bore in her bosom. And so she 
frolicked on, clapping her hands and laughing, and scamper- 
ing ofT on her chubby little feet to plunge headlong into the 
fragrant thicket, or tumble into the arms of her playmates, 
with a hearty joyousness truly refreshing. Suddenly she 
paused in the midst of her wildest play, pressed the tip of a 
rosy finger against the already fully developed corner of her 
forehead, and gazed fixedly into the distance. The children 
frolicked before her, but she did not move a nmscle ; they 
attempted to take her hand, but she uttered a cry, as of pain, 
and they desisted. 

" There, Thomas ! " 

"What?" 

" She sees somethi?ig." 

" I should think not ; she seems to be gazing on vacancy. " 

" I tell you, Thomas Ravelin, that child has a spirit in her 
beyond the common. Whether we have cause to weep or 
rejoice, we are yet to know." 

The husband looked a little interested. " Her tempera- 
ment certainly differs essentially from Ruth's. She must be 
carefully educated, her tendencies checked — she must be 
taught self-control — " 

" Taught ! checked ! educated ! My poor Ida ! " 

The mother said no more. She seemed to be re-perusing 
leaves of her own life, long since turned over ; and as she 
read she trembled. The child's future presented a dismal 
page, for she saw it by the glooming light of her own sunless 
past. 

" So unlike other children ! " whispered the mother to her- 
self, as she stooped among the vines, and took her idol to her 

VOL. II. 18* 



210 



IDA RAVELIN. 



bosom. The child turned its dark eyes upon her wonderingly 
passed its little hand across her throbbing temples, patted her 
flushed cheek, twined her black tresses for a few moments 
about its fingers, then nestled in her bosom and slept — cer- 
tainly not unlike other children. 

" Don't teach her any of your romantic notions, Mary," 
said Thomas Ravelin one day, when Ida had again become 
the si:bject of conversation. 

" Teach her ! No, Thomas, she is taught of a Higher than 
1 am — there is that within which may be shut, locked there, 
but you cannot take it away. My poor Ida ! " 

"Ruth is now eighteen; she is well taught and discreet, 
with a strong judgment — " 
Ruth is my dependence." 

" You have perfect confidence in her judgment?" 

" Yes." 

" Sometimes you even go to her for counsel ? " 

" Oh, Ruth has five times the worldly wisdom that I have." 

" Give Ida to her care, then." 

" What ! " 

"There is something in Ida's character out of tune — let 
her have — let her assist you in regulating it." 

" She can't — she can't ! Ida has more wisdom than all 
of us." 

" Madam," interposed Thomas Ravelin, sternly, " this is 
folly. Have done with these fancies, or the ruin of your child 
wi'A be on your own head. Ida must be curbed and properly 
trained — " 

" Then her mother's hand shall do it," interrupted Mary 
with proud dignity. 

" As you will, Mary ; but you well know the fruits of an 
ill-regulated imagination." 

The mother crossed her arms on her breast, and raised her 
eyes upward. She was praying God for wisdom. 

"He is right — I shall make her as miserable as I have 
been," was the burden of her reflections that evening ; " but 
can I give up the budding intellect to another's watchings ' 



IDA RAVELIN. 211 

No, no! the sweet task of guiding and pruning be mine. But 
I have so many faults. He calls me a creature of impulse, 
unreasoning, and Ruth is always so correct — always in the 
right — I shall need her judgment. Anything for thy sake, 
my Ida. I have reason to distrust myself, and Ruth shall 
share the dearest of all duties with me." 

Ruth did share in what should have been altogether a love 
labor; and little Ida, though seemingly untamable, had a 
system of thought and action prescribed, which, however in- 
effective it might have been in the case of an inferior nature, 
soon began to exhibit quaker-like results. Instead of devel- 
oping her nature, it was repressed, as an ignorant man wouJd 
try to extinguish a kindling fire by smothering it in cotton ; 
she was carefully guarded against little outbreaks of feeling, 
when, instead, her feelings should have been called out, and 
directed in proper channels. And so, by degrees, the mother's 
influence was lost; and she grew afraid to take the child upon 
her knee, and draw out, as had been her wont, the charming 
little fancies which form the staple of the thoughts of child- 
hood. She Avatched it tenderly and jealously, treasured all 
its little sayings in her heart, gazing into its deep eyes with 
the far-reaching sight of Cassandra; but, like those of 
Cassandra, her prophecies were unheeded. To all but her 
mother, Ida was a pretty, frolicksome child; with nothing to 
distinguish her from other children, except, perhaps, an unu- 
sual flow of spirits, and those strange fits of abstraction which 
even Ruth had not the art to cure. 

" Ida ! Ida ! Ida ! " shouted Phil Ravelin. 

It was useless. Ida sat upon a mossed knoll, her hands 
clasped over her knee, and her bright face, with its parted 
lips, and eager, weird eyes, looking out from the dark masses 
of hair which fell, almost too luxuriantly for childhood, about 
her beautiful shoulders. 

" Ida, are you asleep ? look here, Ida ! " 

The boy waited a moment, and then shook her by the 
shoulder. Ida uttered a shriek, as though in pain. 



212 IDA KAVELIN. 

" Ida ! look up, Ida ! I have something to tell you." 

The little girl shook off his hand, and sprang, like a scared 
gazelle, to the nearest thicket. 

" I won't follow her," muttered the hoy, drawing the corner 
of his jacket across his eyes ; " it is too bad ; and they shan't 
make me hurt her again — indeed, they shall not. Poor little 
Ida!" 

Half an hour afterwards Ida had snuggled down in the 
deep grass with her brother, talking with him most confiden- 
tially, but not of her strange malady. At last Phil ventured 
to make mention of it. There had been a long silence, and 
he forgot that Ida's thoughts did not probably follow in the 
same channel with his. 

" What makes you do it, Ida ? " 

The little girl was plucking away with tender care the 
leaves of a buttercup, and she answered, without raising her 
eyes, " I want to find the angel in it." 

" In what ? " 

"This." 

" Why, angels are away beyond the blue, Ida. To thmk 
of an angel, with its great white wings, and may be its big 
harp, too, coming down from heaven to live in a poor little 
buttercup ! Whew ! " 

Ida smiled pityingly, as though she knew much more about 
these things than her brother could know ; but did not care to 
enlighten his ignorance. 

" But what were you thinking of, Ida, when I came to you 
a little while ago ? " 

" I don't know." 

" You sat looking so ;" and Phil mimicked his sister as well 
as he could. " What did you see ? " 

" Nothing, I guess." 

" Now, Ida ! " 

The little girl's cheek flushed, and her lips grew tremulous, 
but she made no answer. 

" Tell me, Ida, dear — just me — whisper, if you don't want 
to speak loud. Come, put your lips close. Won't you tell 
Ida?" 



IDA RAVELIN. 213 

Ida looked at her brother expressively, and seemed be\vil- 
dered, 

" You are not a good girl — and I will never love you 
any more — never — because — because — won't you tell me, 
Idk?" 

"I — I — sometimes I see a great world, not like this, and 
hear — love me, Phil, love me; for it hurts me to tell. It is 
very strange — I have been there some time, long, long ago 
— and, Phil, I am not your little Ida there. Don't ask me 
any more, but you must love me, Phil ! " and the child sank, 
sobbing with excitement, into the arms of her brother. 

Phil repeated, at home, what his sister had said ; and Ida 
was pronounced the victim of a temporary insanity. She was 
carefully watched over, and the subject never mentioned to 
her again. 

" Not like other children ! " repeated little Ida Ravelin to 
herself. " I have heard that before. Oh ! now I remember ; 
sJie used to whisper it over me when I was a baby. I wonder 
how I differ." Ida carefully examined her feet, her hands, 
passed her fingers along her full, white arms, bent the elbow, 
curved the wrist, folded the fingers in the palm, clapped her 
hands, shook them above her head, walked with her head 
erect and foot firm, skipped, danced, tried her voice, first in a 
shout, then in laughter at the returning echoes, then in a gush 
of bird-like warblings, and, finally, knelt quietly beside a clear 
pool, which mirrored her bright face. Little Ida might well 
have been startled at the rare vision in the water. A con- 
noisseur would not have pronounced her beautiful ; but yel 
she was exquisitely so ; and she knew it, and smiled at it. 
A sweet answering smile, like a visible echo, came up from 
the water, and Ida smiled again. But the innocent vanity 
lasted only a moment. Her next thought was, " How do I 
differ? My hair is dark, and glossy, and curling, just like 
Ruth's ; my nose, and chin, and lips, and cheeks — why, they 
ire all like Phil's, only Phil's are a little darker, and not quite 
«o soft ; my forehead is Uke mamma's, and my eyes are like 



214 IDA RAVELIN. 

mamma's, too, not so large and handsome, may be, but I am 
a little girl yet. 1 wonder how I difler? I can talk, and — 
may be it is the thinking. But I don't think much — I play 
most of the time. May be it is because I see — but she 
don't know that. Unlike other children ! What can it 
mean ? " and Ida shook her little head, as though it were 
oppressed by the weight of a great mystery. The subject did 
not grow to be less important to the child by constantly pon- 
dering on it. Her laughing eyes became daily more thought- 
fu! but yet. as she had said, she loved her play. 

Ida had crept from her bed, and stood in her night dress, 
her little figure all bathed in the golden-hued moonlight. 
How like a spirit she looked, poised so lightly on her tiny feet 
that she scarce seemed to touch the carpet, her arm half 
extended, and her lips parted, as though in converse with 
things invisible ! With a mother's inner sense, Mary Eavelin 
discovered that her daughter was not sleeping, and left her 
own couch to hover near her. Drawing toward the door, she 
lifted the latch, but paused, with suspended breath, on the 
threshold. Was that a mortal being, shrined so gloriously, or 
the spirit that nightly came to guard her daughter's pillow ? 
The moonlight streamed through the open casement, and 
gathered about her in a flood of radiance, quivering aloog her 
white robe, striving to rest, and yet tremulous, as though 
drunk with its OAvn glorious beauty, or agitated by the prox- 
imity of a yet more glorious, deathless spirit. Softly crept in 
the incense-laden breezes, dallying with the curls of the child, 
and, now and then, casting the shadow of a lifted leaf upon 
her. Softly and dreamily fell the shadows about the aban- 
doned pillow ; and, far off, in another corner of the room, lay 
heavier, darker shadows, which Mary Ravelin knew were 
naturally produced, while yet she felt they had a deeper 
meaning. 

" There is a glory about thee, my child," she whispered, in 
her throbbing heart, " but the world is a dark, dark place for 
such as thou. Oh ! my God ! but for a talisman against this 



IDA RAVELIN. 215 

foreshadowed misery I " A sob of agony accompanied these 
last words, which called Ida from heaven. She turned, and 
sprang to the bosom of her mother. 

" Oh, mamma ! I am so glad you have come ! there are 
things I want to say to you." 

Mary hfted the beautiful head from her bosom, and, hold- 
ing it between her two hands, gazed long and fixedly into the 
child's spiritual face. 

" I will tell her what she is," she thought ; " how rarely 
gifted, how angelic in her nature. I will tell her what she is^ 
and warn her of the future, I will — " 

The thread of thought was cut short by remembered words. 
" Don't teach her any of your romantic notions." Mary 
shuddered, and her eyelids drooped. She could barely artic- 
ulate, " What is it, my love ?-" 

Ida felt the chill that had fallen on her mother's spirit, 
though she did not know the cause ; and her voice became 
low and timid. The inspiration of a moment previous had 
been scared away. 

"Did I ever, mamma — did I ever — do — we — come 
from heaven to live here awhile, and then go back to heaven 
again ? " 

" Come from heaven ! " Mary shook her head. 

" Where then, mamma?" 

" Men spring from the dust of the earth." 

" The dust we walk on ? " 

" Yes." 

Ida mused a few moments. Then, raising her little hand, 
she pressed back the blood till it looked white and dead ; then 
turned it downward, and allowed the red current to rush back 
again ; and then looked up into her mother's face, doubtingly. 
" It is very strange, mamma." 

" Everything is strange in this world, my darling." 

Ida was still examining the little hand that lay in her 
mother's. Finally, raising the other, she pressed it against 
her heart. "Not all of dust, mamma; what makes us 
live?" 



216 IDA RAVELIN. 

"God gives the spirit." 

" Where does he get it ? " 

" From himself, from — " 

" Then," interrupted the child, exultingly, " it came from 
heaven; it has lived there with Him before, and it was in 
heaven I saw all those beautiful things ! I knew I had been 
with the angels — I knew I had, mamma ! " 

Mary clasped the child closely in her arms, and longed to 
encourage her to be still more communicative ; but the 
charge, " Don't teach her any of your romantic notions," 
rang in her ears, and she tried to calm her emotion, and act as 
her husband's superior judgment would have dictated. 

" Ida, my darling, listen to me." Mary's voice was low 
and faltering, for she was not used to the cold part she was 
endeavoring to act. " Listen to me, Ida ; for you are a very 
little girl, and must know that your mamma understands 
what is for your good better than you can. You must never 
have such fancies — " 

" How can I help it ? " 

" You must not lie awake thinking at night — " 

" How can I help it, mamma ? " 

"You must — you must. Oh! my Ida, try to be like 
Ruth. Do as she bids you. Play with the children in the 
fields — " 

" The angels come to me there, mamma." 

" Run in the garden — " 

" And there." 

"Play with your dolls — fling the shuttlecock — skip the 
rope — " 

" Oh ! I do all those things, mamma. I love to play , but I 
cannot play all the time — nobody does that." 

" Well, talk with your papa and Ruth — " 

" Is it wrong to think, mamma ? " 

" It is not best to think, unless — " 

Ida waited long for the sentence to be finished ; but Mary 
knew how incompetent she was to advise, and she scarce 
knew what to say. The child still gazed into her face, how- 



IDA RAVELIN. 217 

ever, as though more than life hung upon her words. 
•' When you are older, my Ida, you will know what thoughts 
to indulge, and what to repress ; now strive to think only of 
the things about you — what you see — " 

" What I see I Oh, I see everything beautiful, every- 
thing — " 

" What you hear talked of, I mean. Will you try, my 
darling?" 

Ida looked bewildered. 

" But don't think of it now. Now you must sleep, and 
to-morrow make yourself busy with your play and your les- 
sons. Good-night, my love." 

Mary laid the head of her child upon the pillow, pressed 
kiss after kiss upon her lips and forehead ; and, with pain at 
her heart, though fully believing that she had acted wisely, 
went away to her own sleepless couch. As soon as she 
was gone, a merry, half-smothered laugh burst from the 
parted rose-bud of a mouth resting against the pillow; and 
Ida clapped her little hands together and sprang out lightly 
upon the carpet. 

" So it was heaven that I came from. I have found it all 
out now. I am glad I asked mamma. But," and Ida's lips 
drooped at the corners, " I must n't ask her anything more. 
I wonder if I was an angel and had wings up there, and if 
the things I see now — I wonder — but mamma said I 
mustn't think of these things. Why must n't I think ? How 
can I help thinking ? " 

Ida pressed her hand successively on her forehead and 
against her heart; as though feeling after some secret spring, 
by the moving of which she might lock away that flood 
of thought. "How can I help thinking?" she repeated. 
" When I am a woman maybe I can, but now the thoughts 
tvill come." 

Ah, Ida ! if the little germ fill the heart of childhood with 
its first swelling, what will it be, in flowering and fruit-bear- 
ing, to the nature which cherished it ? 

"When I am a woman — but — why shouldn't I think 

VOL. II. 19 



218 IDA RAVELIN. 

now? Is it wrong to think? Perhaps I am very foolish-— 
perhaps I don't — " Ida's face flushed ; she stood for a moment 
as though perplexed, stunned, and then crouched by the bed- 
side and buried her face in the drapery. For a long time 
she remained motionless ; and if not sleeping, she must have 
been in thought, intense, perhaps painful thought, for mem- 
ory is a traitor if it deny depth and intensity to the mental 
emotions of our childhood. At last she arose slowly, and 
with an expression of sadness which had never before over- 
shadowed her young face. 

" Unlike others ! " she murmured. " I see it all now — it 
must be so. That is why they watch me so closely — they 
are afraid to leave me alone. That is why I must look at 
other people, and try to think as they talk. This is why 
everybody is so kind to me, and all that look at me seem to 
say, poor Ida I — they are just so to her. That is why 
mamma looks at me so sorrowfully, and the tears come into 
her eyes, and she breathes so hard, as though there was 
something strange about me, and she had strange thoughts 
she was shutting in. Now I know why she always said I 
was unlike other children, and why she seems to love me so 
much better than she does Phil. I wonder if Phil knows it ? 
— he must — oh, yes I he knows all about her. But she 
can't talk, and I can — that is, I think I can. Maybe I don't 
speak the words ; — she makes a sound, and I suppose she calls 
that talking ; — they seem to understand her, too, and sometimes 
people look at me as though they didn't understand me. 
Nobody seems very well to understand me but mother and 
Phil, and Phil not always. Oh, yes ! I know it all now — 
all — all — all! lam like poor Cicely Doane !" 

Cicely Doane was an idiot ! 

Poor Ida's unemployed imagination had at last conjured 
up a phanton. which it might be difficult to lay. Was it 
strange that she should ? Why, the child had suddenly become 
a philosopher ; and might, by a very simple process of induc- 
tive reasoning, arrive at the grand theory of Hume himself. 
She was only a little more modest than he — she denied simply 



IDA RAVELIN. 219 

die existence of her own mind; he,of everj'body's. So a fal- 
lacy on which a mighty philosopher could waste years of 
time, a child of a few summers fished up from her fancy, just 
between dreams on a moonlit night. And the child would 
be laughed at had she ventured to name her folly, while the 
man is followed by crowds of admiring disciples. So much 
for the boasted wisdom of sages, and the gidlibiliiy of their 
followers ! But there was a diflerence. The child unfortu- 
nately believed her tlieory, and acted on it ; the philosopher 
treated his as a brave man does the optical illusion which 
oiliers might deem a supernatural visiter, walk'mg through, it. 
From that night a change came over little Ida Ravelin. 
If she commenced speaking, she slopped in the middle of a 
sentence to wonder if she were understood. "When with 
other children, she looked on their amusements with interest, 
hut never ventured to join them, for she was sure that they 
invited her only from pity. A touchingly sorrowful expres- 
sion, mingled with traces of premature thought, crept over her 
face; and while she was as much in love with life and the 
things of life as ever, she moved about as a mere spectator. 
Thomas Ravelin thought the child improving wonderfully, 
Ruth joyed in the fruit of her somewhat laborious instruc- 
tions, and even Mary regarded the timid, quiet child with 
something like a feeling of relief. Little did any one dream 
of the silent influence that was remoulding a nature which 
God had fitted for high and noble purposes. To do as 
others did, became little Ida's constant study. But still her 
mind was not an imitator ; U refused to learn the lesson. 
She observed, and formed an independent opinion on even,- 
eubject, but never dared express it ; and when a difierent one 
was given, she relinquished her owni, certain that it must be 
\\Tong. She still felt, too, with as much freedom as ever. 
She loved and hated, hoped and desponded, but it seemed to 
her tliat she scarce had a right to feel ; and so even,'thing was 
shut closely within her o«Ti bosom. Little Ida's cheek 
began to lose its roundness, and her eye its rare brilliancv : 
for the actual was receding from her, and she lived only in 



220 IDA RAVELIN. 

the ideal. A little world was built up within her bosom, a 
dear, charming, life-like world, peopled not with fairies and 
woodland deities, but with real flesh and blood beings, with 
whom the child held converse every day, Avhen she shrank 
from the sight of her sister's visiters, with the firm belief that 
she, poor trembler, was a companion too humble for them, 

" I am unlike them — all unlike them," would Ida whisper 
sadly to herself; and then she would smile and turn to her 
imaginary world, from which nothing that belongs to human 
nature was excluded, save the bad — turn to that and enact 
the queen for which she was intended originally. So Ida's 
mind did not feed upon itself, but grew and expanded ; grew 
wise and lofty, yet not too much elherealized for the v^orld 
that lay before her, while she shrank from contact with that 
world, with a sensitiveness utterly incomprehensible to those 
who could not take a peep behind the veil. And there the 
child stood on the threshold of life, rare, glorious in her spirit's 
beauty, but, alas ! crippled in every limb. So much for trying 
amend what God has made perfect, oh ye quacks of the 
human soul ! 

The windows had been thrown up, and the heavy curtains 
looped far back to allow free entrance to the fresh, fragrant 
breezes ; for breath, breath was sorely needed in that house 
of the dying. The trembling soul still clung to its earthly 
altar, fanned in the moment of its fainting by the clear summer 
air, which swept up from its dalliance with the budding things 
of June, to linger on the lip and give another swell to the 
heart which had once gloried in its joyous ministrations 
Mary Ravelin, like some superb flower broken from its stem, 
lay withering in her fully expanded beauty. Her eye still 
flashed and burned with supernatural brilliancy, fully matched 
by the deep crimson of her cheek and lips ; but the hands, 
which were folded over the heaving bosom, were long and 
thin, and tipped with the ice of death. Across her forehead, 
too, wandered little violet threads, now taking on a dark, un- 
natural purple, and contrasting fearfully with the deep palor 



IDA RAVELIN. 221 

of their resting-place. Her hair had broken from the con- 
finement of the cap, and lay in rich shining folds of raven 
hlackness about her neck and shoulders ; conspiring with the 
crimson cheek and dazzling eye to give an intensity, a proud 
queenliness to her beauty, in strange contrast with the certainty 
of immediate dissolution. Around her gathered a group of 
weeping mourners; but little Ida was not with them. From 
lime to time, at the rustle of a curtain, or some slight noise 
from without, the eye of the dying woman would turn itself 
on the door, and then the breath, which struggled up with so 
much difficulty from its fast benumbing fountain, would falter 
and quiver in agitation. At last, a light, springing step was 
heard, in the adjoining apartment, and gently, but eagerly, 
the latch was raised. 

" My Ida ! " whispered the dying mother. 

Ida had filled her apron with flowers, and gathered up the 
corners in her hand ; the dew-spangled ' buds peeping out 
in every direction, eloquent in their young brightness, but 
strangely eloquent at an hour so fraught with the deep solem- 
nities of death. The light of love was beaming in her eye, 
and her thin, childish face glowed with exercise. Beautiful 
I was the child — though not so beautiful as when we first knew 
; her — beautiful was she, as, with the eagerness of a loving 
' heart, her bright head peered through the opening of the door, 
' and her sweet, dove-like eyes sought the couch of her mother. 
But the solemnity of the scene startled her ; and she stood 
thus lightly poised, on the threshold, her lips parted, and her 
eyes full of eloquent wonder. A woman left the bedside, and 
tiiking the child by the hand, beckoned her to throw aside the 
useless flowers. 

" Nay, bring them to me," said a low, feeble voice from the 
pillow. 

Ida dropped the hand of her conductor, and sprung to the 
bosom of her mother, scattering the flowers as she went, and 
crushing them beneath her little feet, till the apartment was 
filled Avith their perfume. One hand of the dying woman 
closed about an opening rose-bud, as though the death-stricken 

VOL. II. 19* 



222 IDA RAVELIN. 

fingers knew so well these beautiful treasures, loved of yore, 
as to select by instinct the fairest among them ; and the other 
arm was twined lovingly about her own bud of immortality 
— the strangely gentle being who, year by year, had grown 
closely to her impassioned heart. 

What she said no one could hear, for the words seemed to 
l>e pronounced rather by her struggling heart than by her lips, 
so faintly and falteringly they fell ; but Ida heard every one ; 
and, as she listened, instead of the sorrow which was deluging 
otlier faces, a strange, joyous light beamed in her eyes and 
played about her mouth. 

" I know it, my mother, I know it," at last she said, eagerly, 
" but no one ever told me before." 

" Then tread the earth carefully, my darling," whispered 
the dying mother ; " love the beautiful things which God has 
made — love the beings he has given you for companionship; 
but, Ida, Ida, shut that rich heart from every eye. Give all its 
wealth to Heaven — the reeds which it would rest upon here 
Avill sway and bend beneath it — there is no support for a 
strong, high spirit here. Keep thy treasure close, my darling, 
and thou wilt be happy; but once — " 

The breath came gaspingly, and there was a short, severe 
struggle. An attendant interposed, and endeavored to remove 
the child, but the arm of the dying woman was too firmly 
about her. 

•' Do not let the world know the riches shut in thy bosom, 
Ida — they would be desecrated, stained — keep them for thine 
own self and the angels." 

Mary Ravelin drew the lips of the child to hers, pressed 
them fondly again and again, but each time more feebly, till 
finally there came one long, loving pressure, as though the 
icy lips would grow to the warm living ones, and all was still ! 
Upon the bosom of the dead lay the fair child, her bright 
locks mingling with the shining black, one hand pressing the 
livid cheek, and the other lying, the fairest flower of them all, 
among the fresh roses yet sparkling with dew ; there she lay 
in her young beauty, without a tear or sigh, but yet the sin« 



IDA KAVELIN. 223 

cerest of mourners. At first she would not be separated from 
the loved clay ; but when they told her that her mother was 
dead, and she looked into the glazed eyes, and placed her 
hand upon the hushed heart, and knew that it was so, she 
suffered herself to be led quietly and uncomplainingly away. 

All that day Ida sat beneath the little clump of locust trees 
in the garden, and watched the window from which her 
mother had so often looked ; while thoughts, such as seldom 
find their origin in the bosom of a child, crowded upon her, 
and left an impress upon her sweet, sad face. A change had 
come over Ida Ravelin since the night of the first strange fan- 
tasy which had sealed up the door of her spirit against com- 
munion with her kind. The timidity which characterized 
her during that year had remained and strengthened, but the 
self-distrust had vanished. She knew there was that within 
her bosom which those about her could not even comprehend ; 
she knew of a deep mine of more than earthly wisdom, in 
which she daily revelled, and the existence of which no one 
imagined ; but yet she believed herself as much unfitted for 
companionship with others as though she had been the idiot 
which she once imagined. 

" I lack something," she would say to herself. " I am not 
like them ; they never speak of the things I think about, and 
they find no pleasure in my words. I am not like them ; they 
cannot be interested in me ; and so I will give my love to the 
birds and violets." 

Notwithstanding this feeling, none was more truly loved 
than Ida Ravelin — not by strangers, for her serious, thought- 
ful eyes, and full, intellectual forehead, had too little of the 
child about them for her years — but those who saw her daily, 
and penetrated beneath the covering of mingled timidity and 
self-consciousness in which she had enveloped herself, saw 
the joyous spirit, the simple, artless grace that fashioned all 
within, and loved her. But even they, her constant compan- 
ions, did not see all. Sweetness, and love, and truth, were 
the qualities which attracted them ; they did not see into the 
depths of mind and heart — -the intellect and the affections 



224 IDA RAVELIN. 

braided closely together, and growing up in rich lUxuriance, 
budding and blossoming for the eyes of angels only. The 
only expression which Ida Ravelin had ever given to the 
inspiration lighting up the inner chamber of her soul was in 
song. And, but for these revealings, even the watchful, anx- 
ious mother might have been deceived; there was so little 
without to give a clue to the contents of the casket. Yet, 
strange to say, through all this Ida had preserved aU her 
world-lovingness, her ready sympathy with whatever inter- 
ested her friends ; and, on all occasions, she evinced a 
capability of judging, and a sober common sense, seldom 
possessed in connection with a rich fancy and ardent imagina- 
tion. So had Ida grown and expanded, though crippled still, 
until she reached her thirteenth summer ; and now another 
change had come over her fortunes — a dark, dark change 
for the eyes that had watched over her timidly and with 
trembling, but, oh, so lovingly ! had lost their light, and the 
bosom which had pillowed her head when thought had made 
it ache, could never be her pillow again. Cold, cold was it, 
and hushed the heart which had beat in concert with her own, 
answering every throb with a throb still wilder, even while 
the lips were striving to belie its earnestness. Ida had been 
taught of the heart, not the lips, and now was she all alone ; 
orphaned in a world to which she was a stranger, doubly 
orphaned in spirit. j 

All was still in the house of death. The mourners had 1 
gone to their pillows, perhaps with the abandon of real grief, | 
to add the awe of darkness and the solemnity of loneliness to ' 
their already weighty sorrows ; perhaps to rest their fatigued 
senses, but not their aching hearts, in a sleep haunted by 
dreams scarce less fearful than the waking reality. Two old 
women sat beside the vines which shaded the open window, 
talking in broken whispers, the meaning of which was eked 
out by mysterious nods, and involuntarily drawing nearer 
each other, as the shadows of the leaves commeiiced a fresh 
frolic with the moonbeams which peered through them, paint- 
ing fantastic figures on the ceiling and carpet. 



IDA RAVELIN. 225 

" She has not heen a happy woman," whispered one ; and 
then she gave two distinct nods, and tucked a grey lock be- 
neath her cap, and passed her fingers across her keen old 
eyes, which glittered with an intenser light than the moon 
itself. The other shook her head and^ sighed, and thanked 
Heaven that she was not in the place of some hard, stern peo- 
ple whom she might name ; though, to be sure, Mary Rave- 
lin had not been just like other women — the Lord forgive 
her for speaking such words of the dead, for she was sure she 
had always wished the poor creature well. 

" Hark ! " and both old Avomen put their fingers to their 
lips, and drew themselves upright with a shiver ; for the clock 
was on the stroke of twelve, and mingling with its tone was 
another sound. The clock ceased, but the other noise con- 
tinued. There was a click, like the lifting of a latch ; and 
then a foot-fall, which struck the frightened Avatchers as sin- 
gularly heavy, in the apartment of the dead. They both 
started to their feet, and seized a light in either hand, and 
hurried to the door ; and both paused, looked into each oth- 
er's faces, and went back again. A low, soft murmur, as of 
a pleading human voice, pressed down by a heavy weight of 
tears, stole up from the room Avhere lay the shrouded corse, 
and mingled with the rustling of the leaves and the beating 
of their own hearts, overshadowing them with awe, till their 
limbs refused to support them, and their white lips strove in 
vain to pronounce the words of fear which struggled for 
utterance. 

Slowly moved the fingers of the clock — so slowly that it 
seeiT.ed Time himself had made a pause in fear ; and five 
minutes passed like a weary period in a night-mare dream. 
Five minutes more crept by — how, the frightened women could 
not say — but it was gone at length ; and then the voice 
ceased, and a low, soft breathing, though they imagined it 
singularly heaAy and sob-like in their night-time fear, took its 
place, and filled them still Avith terror. A half hour had 
passed since the striking of the clock ; and now that nothing 
but the monotonous breathing had been for a long time heard, 
the old Avomen gathered courage, and again proposed lookmg 



226 IDA RAVELIN. 

into the dreaded apartment. They moved thnidly, and opened 
the door with the utmost caution. At first, they started back 
in alarm ; but then they looked at each other, and one tried 
to smile, while a tear crept into the cold, age-deadened eye of 
the other, and fell sparkling to her withered hand. The dead 
had found loving company. The cloth had been laid back 
from the face of the corse, and close beside it knelt a fair 
young girl, her two hands clasped over the rigid neck, and 
her head resting on the cold, nerveless bosom. A ray of 
moonlight peering through a crevice in the closed curtains, 
glanced from her hair to the shoulder of her white night- 
dress ; and then, breaking and scattering itself, was spread 
over her like an angel's wing, or the visible promise of the 
protection given by the redeemed spirit to the child of her 
almost idolatry. Lightly and reverently crept the two old 
women to the spot. One of them stepped back and closed 
the curtain, as though the vision were too heavenly in its rare 
beauty for earthly eyes to look upon ; but the other opened it 
again, and the moonlight rushed in gladly, enveloping the 
sleeping child in a yet more glorious radiance. 

" We must take her away," said one, in a whisper; " it is 
a dreadful place to sleep in — ugh ! " and a shiver passed over 
the old woman as she spoke. 

" No, no ; she has chosen her own pillow," said her com- 
panion, tenderly. " Poor child! I dare say she will miss it 
many a time. Well, God help her ! If Mary Ravelin was 
not the best of Avives — and I would never say but she was — 
no, no ; she was a devoted mother. Poor Ida sleeps soundly 
— and for the last time in such a place. We will not disturb 
her." 

Almost tearfully, moved the two old women from the sa- 
ere^ spot, and closed the door with care, and left the child to 
her holy dreams. 

" But for one word — one word more ! " sobbed Ida Ravelin, 
as she laid her head so low within the opened coffin that her 
brown locks rested in glossy waves upon the pall. " Oh 



IDA RAVELIN. 227 

to be assured that she will still watch by me ! My angel 
mother ! " 

But neither the anguish of the child, nor the warm pressure 
of the lips, nor the tears that jewelled over the midnight-col- 
ored hair, and wetted the white muslin pillow, could win one 
answering sigh from that cold bosom. 

They took the child from her slumbering parent, and closed 
the coffin, and lowered it into the earth, and placed green sods 
upon the little mound they raised, and went away — some to 
mourn, others to forget. 

Night followed the going down of the sun, and the morning 
came and went — the Sabbath dawned and waned, and gayer 
days rolled into its place — soon months were numbered. 
The golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and the white 
clover-blossoms and nodding grass-heads, yielding to the scythe 
of the mower, changed their color, and gave out a dying 
fragrance. Then tlie apple-boughs were heavily laden with 
fruit of various hues ; the purple plum, for very ripeness, 
dropped down at every touch of the wind, and nestled in the 
fading grass ; and the peach peeped from among the sheltering 
green, with a radiant blush on one warm cheek, while on the 
other was a hue more lusciously tempting still — the rich, 
soft, golden tint which seemed melting into the yellow sun- 
light of a Septemoer sky. Then the trees put on their holy- 
day suit of gold and scarlet, flaunting proudly in their 
gorgeousness ; the orchis and the aster bloomed beneath the 
night-frosts in the garden ; the blood-hued lobelia looked at 
its face in the sparkling, babbling, tripping brooks ; the videts 
awoke from their August slumbers, thousands of purple eyes 
looking up lovingly from deserted garden-plots ; and the jear 
became gay, gayer than in its childhood. The gala-day went 
by, and the trees put on their russet; long spires of pallid 
grass waved to and fro wearily ; the wind awoke with a shiver, 
and marked its course with sobs and wailings ; the brooks 
grew bluer and chiller ; and the cold white clouds trooped off 
through fields of pure cerulean, obeying every impulse of the 



228 IDA RAVELIN. 

ice-winged lord of the storm. Another change — and me 
bare trees were wreathed in white ; the brooks lost their sil- 
very voices, or struggled on with a death-like gurgle, amid 
barriers of choking ice ; the wind swept freely and roughly 
over mountain and meadow, yet on wings of melting fleeci- 
ness ; and the grave of Mary Ravelin, lost beneath the deep 
snoAV of winter, was well nigh forgotten by all but the child- 
mourner. She kept a path well trodden, and her pale, thin 
face often bent over it tearfully ; for though the momentary 
doubt had passed, and she knew that the spirit of her lost 
mother was still by her, still hovered over her in the night- 
time, and watched her every step in the sunlight, the death 
mark had been drawn between them. A deep gulf, with a 
grave at the bottom, must be passed before the two could 
unite as formerly ; and Ida, notwithstanding her angel guar- 
dian, was in the world all alone. But it was not always to 
be thus. There was a change coming, and soon Ida's dark, 
thoughtful eyes grew lustrous with a strange kind of happi- 
ness ; and she went about as one in a dream, a blissful, soul- 
fraught dream, for she had found a friend. By the time the 
spring violets began to shake off their winter slumbers, and 
open their bright eyes to the wooing breezes, the world was 
ringing with the praise of a poet who might have been dropped 
down from the clouds, so full was he of the inspiration of 
Heaven. But long before this had Ida Ravelin known the 
new minstrel well. A scrap of paper had fluttered in her 
path one day Avhen the wintry winds were blowing keenly, 
and, as she glanced it over, her eye fell on familiar thoughts. 
Ida tried to brush the mist from her eyes, for she believed 
that she saw indistinctly; but still it was the same — her 
OAvn thoughts, her secret heart-thoughts, that she never re- 
vealed to mortal — the riches of her own bosom, which ihe 
had hugged to herself more closely since her mother's dying 
caution — spread out upon a paper, in irrevocable print ! And 
yet she knew well that she had never placed them there. 
"What listening spirit, what winged thing hovering near, had 
stolen this honey from its secret lurking-place in the deepest | 



IDA RAVELIN. 229 

recess of the soul-gifted flower, for a careless world to feast 
upon ? Ah, Ida ! there are other spirits than thine roam- 
ing the earth in loneliness; genius often has its twin. The 
child believed her thoughts had been stolen ; but the breath- 
ing language, the harp-like measure, she disclaimed. These 
were not her own ; and these betrayed not only the inspira- 
tion of the genius, but the skill of the artist. Ida stood, with 
her dark spiritual eyes fixed on vacancy, as though reading 
earnestly from a page invisible to others ; then a smile, a glad, 
glowing, beautiful smile broke from her lips, and lighted up 
her pale, sweet face. Ida was no longer alone in the world ; 
she had found a friend. And here the finger of Fate was 
thrust forward, and some wheels were stopped, and new ones 
put in motion ; for the strange machinery employed in weav- 
ing the destiny of Ida Ravelin, grew more complicated. The 
child did not pause to reason ; but one thing she knew from 
the day when she found the scrap of paper by the wayside. 
Her spirit, which could not be entirely prisoned in the little 
body that claimed it for a season, was not condemned to wing 
its way up and down the blossoming earth alone. For weal 
or woe — and Ida could not think of woe in that connection 
— she had found a companion. 

Spring came. Life began to swell and breathe in the 
bosoms of the flower-buds, till it seemed as though each had 
in it a living soul, as full of energy and world-lovingness as 
Ida's own ; the brooks leaped and sparkled, an Undine laugh- 
ing from the heart of every bubble ; and the winds murmured 
their spirit-music among the old trees, and then swept down- 
ward from their high-communion, and stooped to kiss the fore- 
head of the child. Everywhere, everywhere, save in the 
world of living men, she found companions as full of life and 
joy as was her own fluttering heart. And oh, how that heart 
fluttered, as the young girl stood thus on the border of woman- 
hood ! Far before, her poetic imagination spread the broad 
fields of life ; far out in ether gleamed stars innumerable, 
which were to be her way-marks to immortality ; and besidw 

VOL. u. 20 



230 IDA RAVELIN. 

her wallvcd her gnide, her inspiration, her sacred spirit-friend, L 
in the guise of an angel, trod he by her side, invisible to ail 
but her. Glad Ida ! Enviable Ida ! Thy rainbow was set 
in tears, true ; but it was as a triumphal arch thrown over tne 
gateway through which thy Destiny was leading thee up to a 
broader view of life. And the child walked on humbly and 
lovingly, yet without a fear ; stepping carefully the while lest 
her foot should crush the little violet or the dew-flower, and 
hneeling as she went, to mark even the texture of the jewelled 
gossamer which nimble fingers had spread from green to green 
in the spirit-freighted night-time. Loved and loving, but all 
unknown, stepped Ida Ravelin beneath her rainbow arch, ardj 
looked with a startled gaze out on the strange world in which j 
she was a stranger. Warm breezes came wooingly, and kissed ,1 
her cheek, and laid their soft fingers on her forehead, and left 
a touch of balm upon her ripe lips ; the golden sunshine glowed 
in her path, or coquetted with cool, fresh shadows which invited 
to dreamy repose by the wayside ; a thousand glad voices 
greeted her from shrub and tree ; flowers blossomed, wings 
glanced, waters sparkled, and the heart of Ida Ravelin fluttered 
in its cage like an imprisoned bird. But the cage was strong, 
and it could not free itself with all its flutterings. The wires 
had been woven over it, when it had no wing to raise in oppo- 
sition, and now it commanded no resources powerful enough 
to undo the elaborate fastenings. It had been locked from 
without, and from without must the relief come. So Ida was 
still a stranger to those who loved her; for she was loved 
deeply, and with a reverential tenderness, inspired by her 
singular purity and guilelessness. So delicate and helpless, 
too, seemed Ida, that every arm coming within the charmed 
circle about her, involuntarily extended itself for her support ; 
but she needed them not, for in her helplessness she was 
strong — in her lack of worldliness she was wiser than any 
worldling. Still there was a sadness in the strange, prophet- 
like eyes of Ida Ravelin, that seemed scarce to belong to one 
so young; a sadness which had stolen up from the grave 
where some of their tears had fallen ; and though her heart ' 



IDA RAVELIN. 231 

mis now as joyous as the young bird that waved its wing, 
and wheeled and carolled in the sunlight, the shadow would 
aot go away from her face. 

So, many there were who wondered at the young girl's 
seriousness, and thought, as they looked upon her, how strange 
thing it was that any blighting influence should have fallen 
upon so young a nature — and then turned away and forgot 
her existence. Ida was quiet and unpretending, too simple 
and timid to live long in the memory of a stranger. Others 
gave a second look, and these always found something to 
interest them ; but it was only those who won her confidence, 
and who appeared as guileless as herself, that were entrusted 
with even the first key to her nature. These were often star- 
tled by the stirrings of the free, gladsome spirit shut within, 
and could scarce think the occasional gush of mirthfulness, 
which seemed to have its source in an overflowing fountain 
down deep in her nature, could be real. But who should be 
glad, if the pure are not ? Who should be happier than the 
gifted, holding as they do the key to the bright world, and 
bearing a second treasure within their own bosoms? The 
God-gifted, led by the hand and guided and cherished by 
Eternal Love, so like the angels as to be counted one of them 
even while lingering here, throwing their warm sympathy, 
like a veil woven of balm and sunshine, over the world of 
suffering men, treading among the flowers of the earth with 
the light of heaven circling about their heads — who should 
be happier than the gifted? And Ida Ravelin was — oh, so 
happy ! Happy was she in her own genius, in her power of 
creating inner sunshine— ^happy in the human love which was 
lavished on her by the few who wondered at, even as they 
.ovcd, the power she exercised over them — happy in the 
beautiful, beautiful things of God's creation, which sprang up 
beneath her feet and hovered over her head — but happier 
still in the fond dream of her heart's inner chamber — the deep, 
impassioned love which she had lavished so unsparingly upon 
her spirit's twin. So the child went onward, passed under 
her triumphal arch to womanhood, and the angel within her 



232 IDA RAVELIN. 

was not recognized. So, many an angel " walks the earth 
unseen," since the close of the gate of Eden. 

Ida Ravelin was still young, hut not beautiful. It is said 
that the spirit's beauty cannot be shut within, as you would 
shut the diamond in the casket, hiding all its light ; but that 
the radiance illuminating the inner temple will spread itself 
over the face, proclaiming to all who come near, " here dwells 
an angel." I know that sometimes the angel in the boscm 
looks out through human eyes, and puts its own impress on 
human lips ; but this earth has sadly changed since the ladder 
of the old patriarch's dream was let down from heaven ; and 
there are things enow in it to make the beautiful spirit oftener 
veil its sorrowful face with its own pinion, as though thus to, 
wait for the final release. The radiance which would be daz- 
zling to a mortal eye in heaven, is subdued by the sin-heavy- 
atmosphere of this world into a feeble glimmer ; but it is allll 
there, and waiting only the call homeward to become glorious. 
But what if the beauty of the spirit should come out before 
the world and sit upon the brow ? The angel would still be 
unrecognized ; for men are not gifted with a pure vision, and 
the gross eye cannot see beyond the handsome shape and the 
brilliant coloring. When the crowd bows to personal ugli- 
ness, made beautiful by soul, the fallen Zareph and his fair 
Nama may spread their wings — they are very near to heaven. 

Ida Ravelin was not beautiful ; even those who loved her 
most did not attempt to say it, and strangers passed her by 
without a glance. It is true that her slight, delicately moulded 
figure was faultless ; but there was a shrinking timidity in 
her step and manner, which effectually shaded this beauty. 
Her eye had a clear light, but that was timid too. At times- 
there was a soft, dove-like expression in it, and again there; 
burned from its centre a deep, soul-fraught brilliancy, and its 
vision seemed prolonged far into eternity ; but it was too full 
of thought. Her full, round forehead was too severely intel- 
lectual, and the rich, heavy braids which bound her magnifi- 
cently formed head could not compensate for its singularly; 



IDA RAVELIN. 233 

lofty developments. The lower part of the face was of a 
different mould. Ida had never possessed regular features, 
Ithough in childhood she was strikingly beautiful. Her 
mouth had been made lovely by the sweet smiles which 
habitually clustered around it, rather tlian by the chiselling 
of the Architect ; but now the character of the smile was 
changed. Like the one centred in the eye, it was heavily 
laden with thought. Ida had a bosom full of light and love : 
and, in rich, heavy clusters, lay upon her heart the closely- 
folded blossoms of genius. Upon her heart. That genius 
would ever build its altar there ! 

But Ida had her hand closely on her bosom's door, lest 
these treasures should escape. She had placed it there at the 
first stirring of the swelling buds, and, as they gradually 
struggled more for freedom, she pressed her hand down more 
and more closely, and whispered to herself — " Never — never 
— never, but in heaven !" And this struggle made itself vis- 
ible upon her face. The smile was there, but it was thought- 
ful ; the sweetness had not vanished, but it was usually over- 
shadowed by reserve ; sometimes there was a soft lovingness 
; flitted to her lip, but it could scarce be recognized before it 
retreated, as though chilled or scared back by the cold world 
it looked out upon. It would not have been singular for a 
stranger to imagine her a gloomy ascetic ; common acquaint- 
ances considered her merely uninteresting ; but, despite the 
prisoned genius, with all its swellings, and with all its strug- 
glings, her friends, those who knew her best, took her to their 
hearts, and felt that there was an angel there, although they 
did no; sec beyond the wires of the cage. Ida was not morose, 
nor misanthropic, nor sad, nor an enemy to mirth ; she was 
only too thoughtful and too much reserved. It did not mate- 
rially affect her intercourse with those she really loved ; for 
love covers a multitude of shortcomings, and Ida had enough 
to satisfy common friendship, ^vithout encroaching upon her 
sacred treasure. Few would believe that Ida was happy ; for, 
though she looked with an interested eye on mirthful doings, 
she never mingled in them. She had seen but little of tho 
VOL. 11. 20* 



234 IDA RAVELIN. 

outer world ; and, though she had studied closely the few 
pages within her reach, she was but slightly under its influ- 
ence, either for joy or sorrow. However dense the clouds 
above her, the rainbow always spanned her heart. Her world 
was within ; and, as it was too sacred to be looked upon by 
other eyes, she shut up with it the bliss it brought, and car- 
ried everywhere her Eden with her. Oh, Ida was deeply, 
purely, silently happy. Misery is not, as worldlings have 
declared, and the puling sentimentalist labored to establish, 
the twin gift of genius. It is not so — it cannot be ! Let 
the whole world frown ; let the cloud darken, and the winds 
rave — it is all the same ; the fires of adversity will burn away 
only the dross, and, in the midst of all, will walk unseen the 
white-winged angel. And that holy angel spreads its shield 
over the sensitive bosom, and holds always to the thirsty lips 
the cup of bliss. Are my true words doubted, because there 
are so many examples of a different seeming ? Oh ! there 
are men, drunk with vain-glory, and with ambition, and other 
earth -distilled draughts, whose lips never touched the cup of 
inspiration. Men sometimes hear a voice in the air, and mis- 
take its tone. There are many false angels abroad, and they 
deceive many. Some, too, have filled their bosoms up with 
defilements ; and from such the angel turns away to weep, 
casting her protecting shield at her feet, while the shafts of 
misery fly thick and fast. Genius cannot bring her accus- 
tomed blessing to those who would have her dwell apart from 
purity ; and when her temple grows dark with earthlihess, 
her lamp blazes in the midst, a consuming fire. He who 
would pollute the wing^ of his bosom-angel, must needs be 
miserable. But, the gifted, the God-gifted, do they but 
recognize their Benefactor, are, in a peculiar manner, the 
little children of this world ; and little children have received 
at the hands of a Holy One an especial blessing. So the 
thoughtful-eyed, sober-lipped Ida was supremely happy. 

Their voices — those of Ida and the brother-spirit that she 
had so early recognized — had met each other in the upper 



IDA RAVELIN. 235 

Air, and mingled tones. Long since had the twain linked 
themselves in a relationship which only the blessed little chil- 
dren, gifted with spirit-pulses, can understand. Why could 
not this be enough ? Ida thought it was ; and yet, lovers in 
spirit, in person strangers, they met. 

It was a cold, dark, dismal, cloud-curtained morning, when 
Ida Ravelin was called to confide her heart-worship to the 
less romantic eye. She had been conscious of a strange 
shadow, hanging over her head, for days; and now she 
whispered, with white lips, " It is falling — it is falling!" and 
arose to obey the summons. 

Ugh ! how chillingly the hurrying wind swept around the 
corner ; and what a dismal tone it had, like the midnight 
howl, which comes to tell, to the invalid, tales of the noisome 
grave. Heavy was the slow, dragging step of Ida Ravelin, 
and heavier still her heart. She kncAV that the eye of curi- 
osity, the earth-taught tongue, could not link closer together 
two spirits which had no need of such mediums. One by one, 
stair after stair, her steps slowly counted ; finally, she poised 
for one agitating moment on the last, with a foot thrust 
tremblingly and doubtfully forward, again descended, moved 
onward mechanically, and laid her hand upon the door. 
Hast thou but been dreaming, Ida ; and is the vapor which 
thy heart's censer has caused to envelop thee, to pass ofT like 
a smoke-curl in the clear air, leaving thee all disrobed of thy 
enchantment ? Not so. Ida Ravelin would have known her 
poet ; for the angel of genius had a glorious temple. But 
she did not spring forward to meet him ; she did not smile ; 
even the usual light of her eye was clouded in ; she Avould 
have known her poet, but she was not recognized. 

Slowly and chillingly the shadow settled down upon her 
heart ; and then came a cold smile, and words as cold ; and 
the twain sat together, like strangers of different lands, with- 
out any common sympathies, and spoke of that which inter- 
ested neither, and mocked each other with hollow compli- 
ments ; and then, with a cold clasp of the hand, and a formal 
bow, they parted. Ida's heart had never beat so sluggishly 



236 



IDA RAVELIN. 



as at that moment, and her lip might have been moulded of 
iron. 

They met again, and yet again, and again; and still Ida's 
voice seemed chilling, her lip severe, and her manner almost 
repellant. She felt that she was unknown ; and the entire 
sunshine and beauty of years of dreamy bliss seemed to her 
darkened in a moment. Finally, however, the smile upon 
her lip began to beam with soul ; a dewiness crept to her eye 
a softness gathered about her heart, and words were spoken 
which could never have been addressed to any other. She 
knew, though he did not say it, that her poet-friend had 
begun to recognize his beautiful invisible; and the broken 
spirit-link was melting into itself, and conjoining. There 
was something, too, in his voice, which went down into her 
heart, and touched a chord that had never before vibrated. 
On a sudden, all the hoarded wealth of her nature was stirred* 
The angel sprang up, and spread a pair of wings gloriously 
beautiful. The swelling buds burst into full blossom, raising 
a cloud of perfume. A thousand little harps were tuned, and, 
at every breath she drew, her bosom quivered with the rich 
gush of melody. And her hand, and her lip too, quivered, 
and her voice grew tremulous with strange emotion. The 
nour of release had come. A finger from without had 
touched the hidden spring, and the long prisoned spirit of Ida 
Eavelin was free. But it did not leap forth from its cage 
exultingly. The atmosphere of earth was an untried element 
to it ; and there was still a hand striving to hold it back. 
But Ida Ravelin was no longer mistress of her own nature. 
The weak hand trembled — the tumult increased — and the 
wild flood bounded past the slight barrier. The angel was 
triumphant! No wonder that Ida was perplexed and over- 
come with doubt and dread, trembling at the present, and 
refusing to look on the future. The low, melodious tones of 
her poet-friend were full of encouragement and hope, but his 
eye was earthly. He could not see down into the depths of 
spirit which his voice had stirred, and understand the cause 
of the quickened breath and the tremulous lip. Gently, and 



IDA RAVELIN. 237 

With patient kindness, hour after hour, he strove with poor 
Ida's weak timidity, until his words became, for the time, 
strength to her ; and, at last, most confidingly she placed her 
hand in his to be taught and guided. 

The noble poet and his Ida (his before heaven, though only 
tne pure above would know how to recognize the tie that 
bound them) stood in the night air, with clasped hands and 
clasped spirits. The stars up in heaven looked kindly upon 
them, and the wind swept by, kissing warm lips, and dallying 
with curls, and touching with soft wing a brow which bore 
the Deity's own impress. Far before them stretched the still 
waters of the most beautiful lake in the wide world, with the 
lights from the opposite shore twinkling through the trees, 
and flashing out upon it in sudden gushes, which broke and 
departed, leaving their places to others; and behind them 
were the swelling tones of cunning instruments, bearing on 
their wings of melody the soul-laden voice of a woman. The 
full moon was far up in heaven, and cast upon the water a 
broad stream of golden light. A little boat would now and 
then shoot across this moon-gift, the oars flashing with dia- 
monds as it went, dragging far after it a long, glittering train; 
and then it would steal silently along the shore, and the rough 
boatmen would rest on their oars, and feast their eyes on 
beauty and their ears on melody, and perhaps dream of 
holier things than had ever found a place in their thoughts 
before. 

" The angels have paved a pathway of light — our path of 
life, dear Ida." 

In a moment a cloud passed over it, a shadow fell, and the 
path was broken. Ida raised her dark, pensive eyes to the 
poet's face, but her voice was shut in her heart. 

" It is only for a moment. Some steps must be taken in 
darkness. We are yet on earth, and earth is a place of shad- 
ows. But mark the brilliance beyond, as though the portal 
of Paradise were already thrown open ; and its glory lighted 
up our way as we draw near our haven of rest. It is a beau- 
nfulpath, my Ida!" 



238 IDA RAVELIN. 

" Beautiful." 

Ida Ravelin responded mechanically ; but she rested her 
cheek in her palm, and silently retraced her own steps all 
along the emblematic path. It was narrow at first, and bro- 
ken Dark waves came up and parted the light ; then it would 
rush together again, the bright ripples kissing and com- 
mingling. Further on were other little breaks, but the bril- 
liance grew broader and stronger, as she proceeded, until sh« 
came to the shadow. 

" It has been a heavy one," thought Ida, " this disappoint- 
ment and this struggle, but — why struggle ? ' Unlike others ! ' 

— it was whispered in my infancy — it steals up from the sod 
every time I kneel beside her grave. My mother ! my angel 
mother ! I can ' keep my treasures for the eye of heaven,^ as 
thou badest me, but I must be true to my better nature." 

The spirit in her bosom arose and asserted its might. A 
serene smile sat upon her lip ; a steady light came to her 
eye ; and her quivering pulse calmed itself and beat with 
slow, triumphant earnestness. Her companion looked at her 
and wondered at the change. 

"It has been a heavy one, but now I am free!" The 
words passed from her lips in a low murmur, which the ear 
could not catch ; but she felt her heart grow strong ; and, as 
she looked again, the shadow was lifted from the water. 

The next day Ida and her poet friend parted; and, though 
she did not say it, she knew their next meeting would be in 
heaven. They had not loved as others do ; it had been a 
peculiar affection, coined in the innermost recesses of two 
spirits which had been melted into each other long before a 
thought had been given to the caskets which contained them 

— pure, and holy, and elevated — without a particle of earth- 
^iness commingling — a beautiful and a hallowed thing. And 
they had been brought no nearer by the meeting. The clay 
was a hindrance to them, and now Ida longed to cast it off. 
The chain which linked them together could only gather 
strength in heaven. And yet it \va.s a sorrowful thing to part, 
with all the sweet remembrances encircling those few blessed 



IDA RAVELIN 239 

(lays lying in their fresh, pure beauty upon the heart. The 
tears rushed to the eyes of Ida, but they were shut back again 
resolutely ; her voice became even more tremulous than on 
the day previous, and her pale lip quivered with strong emo- 
tion. Poor Ida I The cloud had not wholly vanished. 

" If he could but know that the parting is for time," whis- 
pered the heart of Ida ; and she shaded her eyes with her 
hand, for the tears would be kept back no longer. For the 
first time she was guilty of a murmur, and that against the 
beloved. 

'His heart could not be aching so, and mine not recognize 
th(; pain." 

She felt the touch of a hand, the pressure of lips on her 
bowed forehead, heard a low, sweet word of farewell, that 
might never be forgotten, a step in the passage that fell on her 
ear like the toll of a muffled bell, the closing of a door, and 
she was alone with heaven. Poor Ida ! How she sobbed 
and wore out the lagging hours with weeping. 

Enviable Ida! She was awake. The angel in her bosom 
fluttered no longer behind the prisoning bars ; and on the 
broad earth not a human heart so blest as hers. Intense, 
earnest thought still made its home in her eye ; but beside it 
was the light of conscious inner power, and purity, and love, 
all commingling ; a self-acknowledged affinity to the invisible 
ones which hovered over her. The harp in her bosom had 
been attuned to those above, and not an earthly finger had 
power to produce a discord. Now was Ida Ravelin prepared 
for the world, and prepared for heaven; for, strangely enough, 
both require the same preparation. The robe that can be 
soiled by contact with things below is not the one to glitter 
among the stars. 

Ida Ravelin was not beautiful, but she had no further need 
of beauty. The angel which had always been shut within 
her bosom came out and hovered round her ; and men sought, 
as though there had been some strange witchery there, the 
shadow of its wings. The touch of her finger thrilled ; the 



240 IDA RAVELIN. 

glance of her eye melted ; the sound of her voice enchanted. 
It was the magnetism of genius. Now was the path of Ida 
Ravelin strewed with flowers, and their perfume was grateful 
to her. The altar of her glorious nature was thronged with 
worshippers, and, with a childlike trustfulness, Ida gave love 
for what seemed love. What is there in the world which 
God has made to look upon with indifference ? What in the 
natures God has moulded, marred and soiled though they 
be by the clay they are prisoned in, to regard with coldness ? 
Oh, a brother's heart, however pitiable its setting, is a holy 
thing, and woe be to the foot which dares to rest upon it ! A 
brother's hand! it may be stained, but there is a pulse in it 
which is an echo to the stirrings of the soul, and the soul is 
the breath of God. Who dare refuse the love-clasp to a broth- 
er's hand ? 

Ida gave love for love, and many revelled in its pure sun- 
light ; but her soul had an inner chamber, a veiled temple, to 
which the world was not admitted. It was the trysting place 
of two spirits which waited to keep a yet holier tryst in heaven. 

The world had stepped between the two friends, and they 
could meet only in heart. 

There were grey hairs on the temples of Ida Ravelin, but 
the flowers were yet fresh within, and still fond ones gathered 
near to taste their perfume. 

Away in a strange land, an old man was dying. Tears 
wetted his pillow, and warm lips strove with kisses to melt 
the gathering ice of death. Soft fingers lay upon his temples, 
an anxious hand pressed against his heart, trembling as its 
pulsations grew fainter, and mingled voices, made sharp with 
anguished feeling, went up to heaven most pleadingly ; but 
ihe spirit had looked over the bounds of time, and it could not 
be won back again. The old man smiled, and raised an eye 
to heaven, whispered a cherished name, and died ! 

Ida Raveim sat m the midst of a wrapt circle, scattering 
her buds of thought and feeling with a lavish hand. Sud- 



IDA RAVELIN. 241 

den.y that veiled inner temple was strangely illuminated. A 
glorious radiance beamed out upon her ; meltingly it circled 
round, bathing all within with bliss, and she felt the enfolding 
clasp of wings invisible. Oh ! that her soul should remain 
the longest prisoner ! A soft whisper stole down into her 
heart, and its answer was a struggle. She must be free ! A 
deep, burning brilliancy sprang to her eye ; the crimson gath- 
ered hurriedly on her cheek ; the fevered pulse bounded and 
staggered; the thousand silver chords, which had kept the 
heavenly prisoner so long in its earth-worn cell, stretched 
themselves to their utmost tension, and closed over it with a 
mad, determined energy, then snapped asunder and shrivelled 
in their uselessness ; and the angel planted a foot upon the 
shattered fabric, and, raising its white wings heavenward, rose 
from the earth, never to return again. 

They made a sweet pillow among flowers, and streams, 
and beautiful singing-birds, and laid a head upon it, and wept 
long over this mouldering image of clay. But the stone they 
reared in that beautiful valley spoke falsely. Ida Ravelin 
was not there ; she had joined the loved in Paradise ! 

VOL. II. 21 



242 



TO SPRING. 

A WELCOME, pretty maiden! 

Dainty-footed spring ! 
Thou, with the treasures laden 

No other- hand can bring. 
"While onward thou art tripping, 
Children all around are skipping, 
And the low brown eaves are dripping 

With the gladsomest of tears. 

From mossed old trees are bursting 

The tiny specks of green ; 
Long have their pores been thirsting 

For the gushing sap, I ween; 
With scarce a shade molesting. 
The laughing light is resting 
On the slender group that 's cresting 

Yon fresh, green hillock's brow. 

At the timid flower it glances. 

Beneath the maple's shade ; 
And foiled, it lightly dances 

With the bars the boughs have made ; 
On the waters of the river, 
Still in a winter's shiver, 
Its golden streamers quiver, 

O'er-brimmed with lusty life. 

The folded buds are blushing 

On the gnarled apple-tree ; 
While, the small gi-ass-blades a-crushing, 

Children gather them to see ; 



243 



And the bee, thus early coming, 
All around the clusters humming, 
Upon the bland air thrumming. 
Plunges to the nectared sweets. 

Life, life, the fields is flushing ! 

Joy sprmgs up from the ground ; 
And joyous strains are gushing 

From the woodland all around. 
From birds on wild wings Avheeling, 
Up from the cottage stealing, 
From the full-voiced woodman pealing, 

Ring out the tones of joy. 

Thrice welcome, pretty maiden ! 

With thy kiss upon my cheek, 
Howe'er with care d'erladen, 

Of care I could not speak ; 
Now, I '11 make a truce with sorrow 
And not one cloud will borrow 
From the dark, unsunned morrow 

I wih be a child with thee. 



244 



THE POETESS. 

AN ALLEGOEY. 

There was an immense lake nestled down in the lap of a 
hilly country, and fed by a thousand tributaries. Among 
these was a blithesome little sparkler, which oozed up through 
the green moss, in the shadow of protecting oaks and elm-trees, 
and trickled down from the rocks, at the foot of which it 
gathered up its forces and bounded off, dancing and laughing, 
to its destination. The genius of this stream was a dear little 
innocent, dwelling in an amber moss-cup close by, and loving 
most truly the rosy clouds above her, and the green earth with 
its jewel- work of flowers and dews beneath. And she was 
content with these — the simple-souled little Undine! Bui 
one day, a luckless day perchance, the water-maiden poised 
herself upon the golden rim of her Sylvan temple, and gazed 
earnestly down upon the lake, which lay cradled in the arch 
of a rainbow. And she thought within herself what a very 
nice thing it would be just to deck herself in the jewels she 
was daily pouring into the bosom of the lake, and, canopied 
by that bright bow, sing to the multitudes of men who came 
down to drink of the burnished waters. It was but a thought ; 
ar.u the dear, simple little Undine was on her way. At first 
she was intoxicated, for everything was new, glowing, glad- 
some ; and close by her side crept one who whispered sweet 
things in tones deliciously soft, but oh, how replete with false- 
hood ! The sun made a bright path for her, and flecked her 
robe with gold ; the white-blossomed wild shrub showered its 
tribute of purity and perfume on her feet ; shadows came to 
kiss her dimpled mouth ; the bird wetted its gay wings, and 
then turned to fan her face, scattering pearls at every. wave; 
and the love-eyed deer upon the marge of the stream bent its 



THE POETESS. 



245 



arcned neck, but forgot to drink, because she was there. Oh, 
she was a fresh, happy spirit, singing and laughing there in 
the wilderness, loving the cool, deep shadows, and bearing 
always on her breath the scent of violets ! A fresh, happy 
spirit was she ; — what a pity that she should come out where 
she must barter her warm, ingenuous, beautiful faith, her 
simple trustfulness, and, it may be, her love and truth, for the 
wisdom which makes the heart barren ! Never was a journey 
more delightful than that of our bright-lipped little wanderer, 
until she emerged from the path down the hill-side ; but there 
she began to meet with countless annoyances, and she wished 
herself back again, nestling in her golden cradle in the wil- 
derness. Other water-spirits were there, older than herself 
and world-wise ; and, at first, they looked disdainfully upon 
this simple child of the hill. But when they observed her 
brightness and singular purity, and knew that she would be 
preferred to themselves, they suddenly assumed great friend- 
ship, and attempted to unite the waters of their own brooks 
with hers ; and crossed and re-crossed her little thread of 
silver, making so many provoking entanglements, that the 
hitherto care-free spirit grew weary, and had scarcely the 
courage to pursue her way. Still she went on, though with 
constantly increasing difficulty, till at last she reached the 
border of the lake. But at every foot of ground she passed 
over, the disenchanted little spirit felt her enthusiasm ebbing. 
The meadow, which had looked so green and velvety in the 
distance, was covered with a coarse stunted grass, half faded ; 
and the trees were diminutive and unshapely. As for the 
flowers, — the scentless arum grew there, and the blood-red 
cardinalis, and the deadly water hemlock ; and, now and then, 
some cold blue blossom bent its poisoned chalice for a 
draught, and the ominous nightshade nodded among the inter- 
twisted roots of the cypress at a little distance. Oh, how the 
little spirit sighed when she thought of the fragrant dog- wood, 
the meek-eyed violets, and the frail, beautiful tiarella of her 
native wood ! There were serpents, too, by the lake-side, 
nestled in the rank sedges, and croaking frogs, half beauty, 
VOL. n. 21* 



246 THE POETESS. 

half deformity, and a thousand other things which made our 
timid little Undine look with deep regret upon the misty curl 
of blue which linked her mountain home with the clouds. So 
she wandered in a strange sadness about the lake, sometimes 
turning from the barrier raised about it when she might have 
passed, and sometimes jostled rudely back when she had just 
resolved to cross, till at last a strong, kind hand was extended 
to her ; she trembled for a moment above the tide, and then 
dropped down into the bosom of the lake. How bewildered 
was she there, and how she shivered and tried to smile, and 
looked all about her to find some compensation for the dear 
things she had left — the awakened little dreamer! The cold 
water-bath had spoiled a heaven for her. 

The waters of the lake did not mingle together. There lay 
the turbid alongside the clear and pure, the poisoned flood 
and the stream that had balm in it — there was every variety 
in the great lake, and men might come and drink of which 
they chose ; and the spirit of the mountain rivulet grew almost 
happy again, when she saw bright lips bent to her own waters, 
and brightening still more as they quaffed. But she must 
have been an angel to deem this sufficient compensation for 
the thousand vexatious annoyances which no unsophisticated 
water-spirit, who has never followed her rich gifts to the altar 
of the world, can understand. And our darling little Undine 
was not quite an angel ; and might become less angelic still, 
by standing too long beneath the arch of the rainbow with all 
her jewels on. Haste, haste thee back, pretty wanderer, 
before the breath of the dark hemlock has filled thy veins with 
poison, or the sun kissed the peach-blossom from thy cheek, 
or the wrangling waters made thy soft voice harsh as their 
own, or the dank night has mildewed thy heart. Haste thee 
back, simple Undine, and rest thy throbbing head close in the 
bosom of the golden moss-cup. 



247 



DORA*. 

Eyes, like a wet violet, nestled among a profusion of the 
softest-hued Persian fringes, and hair, gathered from the elfin 
fields of Erin, and combed and twisted into waves by fairy 
fingers — such had Dora'! Then those lips, with their sad 
sweetness, and the love-thought in each corner ! and the pale, 
polished cheek, and vein-crossed forehead ! 

Sweet, delicate Dora' ! — much do I fear, that such a vision 
of loveliness will never again appear at Alderbrook. 

It was years and years ago that Dora' moved among our 
mothers here, with a step like a fawn's, a head erect and 
earnest, like a wild deer on the look-out for the huntsmaOs 
and a face full of half-joyous, half-solemn surprise, such as 
Eve must have worn when her foot first crushed the dews 
and flowers of Eden. Beautiful was Dora', as a dream which 
turns from the daylight to nestle in some young heart, or a 
thought that refuses to syllable itself in clumsy words ; and 
yet, beautiful was she never called ; but all paused and looked 
upon her as she passed by, and smiled, and owned a stronger 
power, though they knew not what it was, than that of beauty. 

Stand by me, reader, and follow the direction of my finger, 
over the bend in the brook, and along the white clover- 
field to the foot of that little knoll with the two elm-trees on 
its crown. Do you .perceive the top of a chimney peeping 
from the green thmgs piled up there, like a monument to a 
Sylvan ? You may not discover it, but I, who have looked 
so many times, know that little speck of reddish brown to be 
a chimney. Well, beneath is the smallest pattern of a human 
shelter that your eyes ever lighted on ; now pretty much gone 
to decay, and grown entirely over with moss and hop- vines. 
I have heard that a white rose-bush once quite over-topped 



248 DORA'. 

the front corner, and sunflowers innumerable peeped theii 
yellow heads above the eaves at the back ; and I have myself 
a distinct remembrance of stopping to admire the trumpet- 
honeysuckle, that years ago graced the door-way ; but not a 
flowering thing opens in that vicinity now. There, all alone, 
once lived Aunty Evans ; a good, gentle old w^oman, who, for 
the want of better things to love, kept always about her 
a family of kittens, chickens, rabbits, and tame pigeons, 
ijesides this, she used to make gingerbread for the little 
people that always looked in, upon their way from school, 
and supply the whole village with sage, rue, and chamomile, 
from a garden that would have been no wonder in Lilliput. 
Aunty Evans could not have been said to be without the 
means of living, for she fed herself, and not unfrequently her 
less industrious neighbors, with the proceeds of her busiest 
of all busy needles. One day, a letter, marked on the out- 
side, "in haste," was sent her from the village post-office; 
and, in an hour after, the fire was extinguished upon her 
hearth, the latch-string drawn, and Aunty Evans, for the first 
time in her life, found herself in the stage-coach. In a few 
days she returned with a pale, sad little girl, all in black, and 
was invited at once to a grand tea-party, for curiosity's sake. 
But the old lady had only a short story. A friend had died, 
and bequeathed her an only child. 

" Has she money ? " asked the gossips. 

Aunty Evans said "No;" and then they all shook their 
heads and looked mysterious; and somehow, in a few minutes 
though there could be no connection between it and the other 
subject, they were all talking about the new and excellent 
regulations which had been made at the almshouse. Aunty 
Evans expressed herself very glad that the poor children 
were to be better cared for; and thereupon sipped her tea 
without further concern. That subject was immediately 
abandoned, and the conversation took an unaccountable turn, 
calculated to overthrow entirely the doctrine of association, for 
somebody began talking about the price of plain needlework. 
Most of the ladies were of the opinion, that a sempstress 



DORA'. 249 

could no more than support herself comfortably ; and if by 
chance she did accomplish more than that, it was her " boun- 
den duty " to lay by the surplus for a " rainy day." Aunty 
Evans appeared to listen to all this very composedly ; but, in 
reality, her thoughts were a little absent. She was planning 
tlie number of shirts she should be obliged to make, in order 
to send the little orphan, Dora', to the best school in the 
village. 

Dora' was sent to school; and forthwith, the pale child 
became as great a favorite as Aunty Evans herself. Dora's 
voice had a tone to it, like the stroke of a silver bell, reaching 
us through a medium of tears j and she might always be 
found, whether under the cherry-tree, at the back of the 
school-house, or nestled in a rich clover-bed, or seated on the 
spotted alders by the brook-side, with a group of children 
about her, singing the little songs that she learned of Aunty 
Evans. How deliciously sweet was that voice ! And though 
the words could claim to be of no higher order than 

" Little bird, with bosom red, 
Welcome to my humble shed :" 

or, 

" Pretty bee, busy bee, 
If you 'd but sing to me," 

many a stem old man paused to listen, and many a bushiess 
woman raised her red bandana to her eyes, as those clear, 
touclung tones fell, despite the crust above it, on her heart. 
The women did not know why they were thus affected ; but 
Aunty Evans would have told them there was a shadow 
within, from which that voice stole its touch of sorrow, and 
which, later in the day of her life, would fall back upon her 
heart. 

Aunty Evans might, quite unknown to those about her, 
have been a prophetess ; but Dora' went on, year after year, 
singing all the time more and more sweetly, and with more 
touching pathos, while the shadow, if any there was, must 
have been nearly melted by the neighboring sunshine. One 



250 DORA*. 

individual, considering himself somewhat wiser than his 
neighbors, Avhispered at length to some others, that the pecu- 
liarity in Dora' Evans's voice was the despairing plaint of 
prisoned genius; but Alderbrook had no citizen mad enough, 
even though all had credited the suggestion, to bind the child 
for this to a lot of splendid misery. Dora's neighbors knew 
little of raising a God-given power to that point of famous 
infamy where even its admirers are privileged to jest about 
it; — they were common men, and had never learned that it 
is the misfortune of genius to consume itself in a bonfire, that 
others may be amused by its coruscations. So Dora' went on 
singing every Sabbath in the village choir, singing at the fire- 
side of Aunty Evans, and singing at the social gatherings in 
the village ; always thankful, and rejoicing that she had a 
power which could make herself and everybody else so happy. 
Thus passed year after year, until Dora' was fifteen ; and the 
shadow had as yet settled on neither heart nor brow. 

Dora' sat upon the knoll that I have pointed out uhder the 
two elm-trees, circled by a row of young faces, all turned 
earnestly and lovingly to hers. 

" Sing it again, Dora' ! do ! do ! just once again, dear ! it 
is so pretty ! " went the pleading round ; and Dora' smiled, and 
began to sing. 

That morning a stranger had reached Alderbrook by the 
stage-coach. He was a small man, slightly moulded ; with 
eager piercing eyes, two wrinkles passing from their inner 
corners half way up the forehead ; an aquiline nose, sallow 
cheeks, and thin lips always pressed closely together. Though 
he could scarcely have attained the middle age, he was slightly 
bald ; frequent threads of silver mingled in his black hair and 
beard ; and upon his face there was many a line, the work of 
a more hasty pencil than time carries. Just as Dora' com- 
menced her song, this man was hurrying along, with his usual 
quick step, close beside the fence. As the first strain fell on 
his ear, he raised his eyes, and cast up to the clouds, and 
away into the tree-tops, a glance of eager inquiry. Again it 



DORA'. 251 

came, and again ; and a smile full of beautiful deAght broke 
over the listener's compressed lips, and a fire was kindled in 
the centre of his now dilated eye, which seemed burning back 
into his very soul. 

" Ha ! " he exclaimed, as his glance fell upon the pretty 
group cresting the green knoll ; and then he crossed his arms 
upon his breast, lowered his earnest brows, and bent his ear 
to listen. 

The stranger did not leave Alderbrook that day , neither 
did he then continue his walk ; but, returning to the " Sheaf 
and Sickle," as soon as the little party beneath the elms was 
broken up, he possessed himself of all his landlady knew con- 
cerning the rustic songstress. 

" Such a voice I " he muttered, as he strode up and down 
the piazza ; " such compass ! such delicacy ! such pathos ! she 
would madden them. It would be a generous deed, too — 
poor orphan ! " 

He passed on, his steps growing every moment quicker and 
his eyes more eagerly bright. " Ay, ay ! I will do it ! I 
cannot leave such a diamond in this desert ! " 

That night the artist tapped at the humble door of Aunty 
Evans; and drawing his chair alongside the old lady, un- 
folded his plans. She listened coldly. 

" The child is well with her mother — she cannot go." 

" But such a gift, madam ! " 

" A gift from God ! it is a sin to tamper with it." 

" Ay, from God !" answered the artist solemnly ; " it is a 
sin to leave it unimproved." 

An hour was spent in fruitless argument, when the com- 
poser suddenly inquired, " But what says the young lady 
herself? let her speak." 

" Yes, let Dora' answer," returned Aunty Evans, trium- 
phantly. " Thank God ! I may trust her ! what say you, 
my child ? " 

" What say est thou, gifted one, to the glorious art ? " 

Dora's face was buried in the folds of muslin that hung 
about the little window, and at first she did not raise it. 



252 DORA'. 

" Speak as you would have it, darling," said the old lady, 
softly, drawing near, and bending over her idol. 

Such dreams as had been swimming in the young girl's 
fancy ! Such a consciousness that every word the composer 
had said of her wondrous power was true ! Such an irre- 
sistible longing to give utterance to an undefinable something 
that she had always felt struggling within her ! How could 
she resist it ? Dora' loved her kind foster-mother ; but now 
there was a fever at her heart and her brain was in a whirl. 
She raised her eyes. How changed were they! the soft, 
meek dewiness had passed — they had grown larger and 
darker, and wore an intensity of meaning, a depth of feeling 
and purpose, that made them strange to Aunty Evans. The 
love-thought had almost vanished from the corners of the 
mouth; the lips lay apart like two lines of burning crimson, 
the upper drawn up and knotted in the middle, and a spot of 
bright red glowed in the centre of each pale cheek. Dora' 
did not speak. It needed not that she should, 

" The shadow is falling ! " murmured Aunty Evans. " My 
poor, poor Dora' ! Oh, I have had a fearful watch ! " 

She folded the child in her arms, kissed her hot cheek, 
placed her hands upon her throbbing temples ; and, saying to 
the composer, " She will go with you," motioned him to leave 
them alone. 

Aunty Evans was not so ignorant of worldly things, as to 
trust her precious charge, without due precaution, to the keep- 
ing of a stranger. She possessed herself of ample knowledge 
concerning the character and standing of the composer ; and 
was very exacting in all her arrangements for the child's wel- 
fare, evincing a lynx-eyed policy that she had never been 
supposed to possess. Above all, she insisted on her being 
allowed to return to her humble home at any moment she 
should express the wish. So Dora' went away from Alder- 
brook, and Aunty Evans was left alone. 

Bright Summer passed in her glory — melancholy Autumn 
laid a worn head upon the bosom of Winter, and with sighs 



DORA*. 253 

jrielded up the spirit — and Winter came on with his cold 
breath and blazonry of jewels. SLx months had passed away 
smce Dora' sang to her companions on the knoll beneath the 
two elm-trees. Now she stood in a luxuriously furnished 
apartment, the soft flaxen ringlets shading her delicate throat 
as of yore, but with little else to mark her identity with the 
violet-eyed child that had sung in the fields at Alderbrook. 
The pale, earnest face of the composer looked out upon her 
adimringly from a pile of cushions at the other end of the 
apartment ; and she was aware of the gaze, and seemed bent 
on gratifying him, for her small hands were clasped with un- 
wonted energy, and determination burned in her cheek and 
flashed from her eye. She stood near a piano at which a 
stranger was seated ; and, after his fingers had passed over 
the keys, her voice broke forth in all its olden melody. But 
now it was subject to her control ; now she knew the feeling 
that she would express, and her voice became but the wings 
to bear it out. The prisoned genius had found utterance. 
Was Dora' happy now ? Out upon such simplicity ! How 
could it be otherwise ? Was she not about to entrance a 
world ? What blissful emotions Avould creep into a thousand 
hearts at listening ! And would not the enchantress find an 
all-sufficient reward in the adulation of millions ? Ah ! Dora', 
Dora' ! bend thy brow to the halo ! tread upon the roses ! 
Never think how the first may darken ; how the last may 
shrivel and fall away from the sharp thorns beneath them ! 
The path has been well trodden and watered — pass on ! 

The good composer, Dora's friend, was dead. 

It had been published far and wide, told in the drawirjg- 
room and in the cofTee-house, in the private parlor and in the 
public saloon, in hall, alley and shop, lisped in the boudoir 
and cried in the street — everywhere, in all the places where' 
the virtuous dwell and vicious hide themselves, it had been 
told that a new star had arisen in the musical horizon ; and 
those who would never care for the artiste on account of her 

VOL. II. 22 



254 doea'. 

art, were told that she was young and beautiful. What a : 
crowd came out to greet the first appearance of our star! 
Should she not have felt honored ? Lights flashed, jewels 
blazed, plumes waved and nodded, smiles sped to their desti- 
nation, or lost themselves upon the air, and all — for her ? 
Not one, not one ! Poor Dora' ! even in her triumph, how 
desolate I 

A burst of applause greeted her appearance; and, for a 
moment, her heart bounded, and her eye flashed with grati- 
fied ambition. Then rows of faces gaped upon her from pit, 
box, and gallery ; eyes were strained, and glasses levelled, 
and the young songstress felt the warm blood mounting has- 
tily to her forehead. Poor Dora' ! even in her triumphs how 
humiliated ! 

She sang as she had ever sung ; for genius is always con- 
scious of its own sacredness, and will not be stared down by 
bold impudence, nor raised up by admiring plaudits. She 
sang, and garlands fell at her feet, and, all night long, the 
applauses of that multitude rang, like the idle mockeries that 
they were, in her ear. Was it for this she had toiled, and 
hoped, and given her better nature up to a withering ambition ? 
Was this her temple in the clouds, now dissolving in its own | 
nothingness — a thing of vapor, bound together by a chain of I 
gilded water-drops ? The wings were melted, and Icarus was 
fast approaching the jEgean. What a blessing that mankind ; 
so seldom reach the goal of hope ! The chase is glorious — I 
in empty, unsatisfying success lies the curse. I 

It was the anniversary of the evening on which Dora' had 1 
resolved to turn from the bosom of her foster-mother to the 
world which was beckoning her. A light was burning on the 
white pine table, and beside it sat Aunty Evans, her Bible on ; 
her knees. She appeared older, ranch older, than on that 
' night twelve-month. Thought had cut strange lines upon her 
face, and deepened the look of simple good nature, once so 
conspicuous there, to one of earnest, almost painful solicitude. 
The door was open, and the fragrance from the honey-suckles 



DORA'. 255 

and roses stole into the apartment ; but Aunty Evans thought 
not a word of the honey-suckles and roses. She was indulg 
ing most painful reflections. A passing figure rustled the 
vines, a shadow fell across the door-way, and a light foot 
pressed the threshold ; yet Aunty Evans looked not up. 

"Mother! mother! — I have come home to you — I am 
sick, I am weary ! Give me a place, mother — a place to 
die ! " 

There were sobbings and tears, half joyous, half heart- 
broken, in the little cottage that night ; and, in the morning. 
all the villagers gathered to look upon the returned idol. How 
changed ! Poor Dora' ! it is needless to follow thee to the 
grave. The spirit that, finding food nowhere on earth, turns 
and eats into itself, can endure but a little time ; and we will 
be more thankful for the natural light that again beamed in 
thine eye, and the natural feeling that slumbered about thy 
lips, than sorry for thine early loss. Thy rest is among the 
flowers, where the bees steal their sweets, and the birds 
spread their wings to the sunlight. 

Sleepest thou not passing well, young Dora' ? 



THE ANGEL'S PILGRIMAGE. 

"Disciple. When the soul sinks to earth and its wings fall away, how may 
they be restored again '? 
Zoroaster. By sprinkling them with the Waters of Life. 
Disciple. But where are those waters to be found ? 
Zoroaster. In the Garden of God." 

I HAD been poring ovev some of the half beautiful, half 
ridiculous fictions of the Oriental theologians, startled every 
now and then to find a real diamond gleaming up from the 
mystic rubbish of darkened genius, and saddened by learning 
how very near the truth some few had groped, while they 
had gone down to the grave without having discovered one 
ray of its pure light. 

Gray shadows were falling upon Strawberry Hill, when I 
closed the book and leaned from the window, thinking, as I 
marked a dark-eyed girl of some five summers crossing the 
log bridge, how would the mighty Zoroaster have been rejoiced 
to receive the key to truth now in the keeping of even that 
little child. The shadows lengthened and grew dimmer as I 
watched, the twilight deepened, and my thoughts took on the 
same mistiness ; the Persian allegories, the Rabbinical fictions, 
and the sublime doctrines of the Chaldeans became strangely 
mingled in my dreaminess ; and hill, stream and meadow 
faded from my closing eyes, as a new scene opened upon them. 
I was at once transported to one of the innermost recesses of 
a solemn and hoary forest, which I believed had slumbered 
for centuries among its own undisturbed shadows, untrodden 
by the foot of man. But even as I stood wondering in the 
midst of this magnificent lonelines-s, I heard a voice in plain- 
tive sadness exclaim, " How long ! hoAV long ! " and I at once 
recognized the presence of one of those fallen angels described 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 257 

by the Rabbins, He had stood upon the heights of heaven, 
when earth was a gloomy mass of darkness ; he had seen " the 
Spirit of God move upon the face of the waters," and he had 
joined the music of the stars, when this beautiful globe sprung 
to life and light. He had nestled in the trees of Eden, and 
dipped his wing in the waters of the Euphrates ; but he had 
sinned, alas ! and those beautiful wings had fallen away. And 
when I saw a fair fragile creature by his side, that I knew had 
trod the earth for centuries, though there was less than the 
weight of twenty summers on her clear brow, I read his sin 
and its punishment. For her sake his wings had fallen, and 
with her he must wander, a pilgrim upon the earth, until the 
end of time. For years and years they had made their home 
among men — for years and years listened to the melodies of 
the rich voiced biU-bul as he warbled from the rose-trees of 
voluptuous Cashmere ; drunk the perfume from Persian groves, 
and wandered in the romantic valleys of the Nile ; but though 
they grew not wearj' of beauty, there was that in the hearts 
of men and in their acts which made them sad. So the angel 
and his bride wandered away to darker, sterner regions. They 
climbed tlie icy peaks of the rugged Altai, slept beneath the 
hardy evergreen of Siberia, and braved, hand in hand, the 
winds which howled along the dreaiy plains of Kamschatka. 
And still they wandered on, till Zillah and her angel were the 
first to leave their footprints on the soil of the New World. 
They had since seen nation after nation grow up and wither ; 
they had seen gay cities built, and again brave old trees grow- 
ing over them; — change, change came everywhere, but not 
to them. At last, another race had claimed the soil and by 
might possessed it. The hearts of the angel and his bride 
sickened at wrong and carnage ; and it was then that they 
plunged into the heart of the wilderness, and made them a 
home in its soUtary depths. 

An hour-glass had just been turned, and the angel bent 
thoughtfully over it, watching the glittering sands as they 
dropped, one by one, into the empty glass below. Beside him 
reclined, like Eve in the original Eden, a beautiful woman. 

VOL. II. 22* 



258 THE angel's pilgrimage. 

A heavy grape-vine overshadowed her ; and underneath, and 
by her side, bloomed gorgeous flowers of every hue, all matted 
into the luxurious green. The hand of improvement had not 
yet ^Tested from the wilderness its treasures. Her soul-full 
eye, with eten more of tenderness than thought in it, rested 
lovingly upon the angel. 

" That we should measure hours, my Zillah," he said at 
length, " like children of a broken day ! we whose seconds 
are marked to us by the seasons, and whose minutes are cen- 
turies ? " 

" And is there no change yet upon the dial-plate ?" 

" None. When I spent a thousand years and all my skill 
upon this dial, I little thought that cycle after cycle would 
pass — cycle after cycle — years wither and go to their graves, 
and young years spring up bearing with them new germs of 
life, and still not a shadow come to tell us that the evening of 
our long, long day was nearer than at its morning." 

" And the other signs, in the heavens and on the earth, and 
among men. Are there no way-marks yet discoverable ? noth- 
ing to say how long ere this sweet, sad journey will be ended, 
and my angel shall have the wings again, which he lost for 
me ? " 

" Yes, it is a sweet journey, Zillah ; though so, so long ! 
There was unfathomable mercy in the punishment awarded 
me, in that thou wert left ; and cheerfully we will bide our 
time." 

Long and wistfully had the fallen angel watched for some 
sign of the earth's dissolution ; but yet his only remark was, 
" We will bide our time." He had looked for the stars to pale ; 
but still they burned on with the same unchanging radiance 
as when first the band of seraphim went forth to light their 
fires ; he had watched cloud after cloud thickening and dis- 
solving in the heavens, almost expecting to see in their end 
less transformation a form which he yet believed he should 
recognize, step from their soft folds. But there had been no 
change in these, save as they obeyed the biddings of the wind, 
since from the walls of the upper Paradise he looked down on 



THE ANGELS PILGRIMAGE. 



259 



their first fresh loveliness. There had been no sign in heaven, 
and none, none on earth. What mark of age was there in 
the strong-limbed giants of the wood, that stood cloud-capt 
around his bower in the wilderness ? Life, life was every- 
where. Everj^thing, even death itself, teemed with it ; for, 
if but a flower closed its young eye, and turned earthward 
withering, flowers innumerable sprang up where it stood ; and 
so the mighty destroyer became the parent of beauty and 
bloom. The earth had never reeled nor paused for a single 
moment in its bright circuit among the stars ; but on, on, 
beautifully and quietly she moved, like a bird from Paradise 
flown by the hand of the Eternal. The angel had watched 
her in his unvarying round, and though his eye had become 
dimmed by the atmosphere of earth, he could yet see deep 
into the mysteries above him. He knew much, very much 
of the heaven-lore which God has written on the stars ; but 
yet the weakness of his vision Avas painful to him, and he 
longed for the day when his mind could span the universe as 
at its creation. He knew where the pelican brooded on her 
rocky desert nest, and saw in the red blood drunk by her 
children from her willing breast but another type of that which 
has its types everywhere. He had followed the eagle in the 
eye of the sun, and knew the language of his scream, the 
thought which prompted every movement of his strong pinion, 
and the dreams that hovered over him in the cloud-capt couch 
he had builded on the crag. He had seen the wing of the 
bird grow heaAy beneath the weight of centuries ; and Avhen 
at last it drooped and faltered, he knew the secret which cost 
the adventurous Spaniard a life — the fountain where it went 
to lave and grow young again. He had bent his ear to the 
flower and listened to its whisperings ; the foot-falls of the 
evening dew were familiar to him ; and not a drop of water 
had a tinkle, not a leaf a murmur, and not a bird a song, the 
language of which he had not interpreted to his still youthful 
bride, the gentle Zillah. But the flower whispered of Life ; 
the dew brought a life-draught in every tiny globule ; and the 
gushing water, and the fresh-lipped leaves, and the mellow- 



260 THE angel's pilgrimage. 

throated birds, and the wandering breeze, all joined in a chorus 
which brought sadness to the spirit of the angel. It was all 
Life ! Life ! but it was that life which bears somewhere in it 
the seeds of dissolution ; not a blossom from the tree guarded 
by the flaming sword of cherubim. 

" Are there no way-marks ? " repeated Zillah. " It is long 
since we grew sick of the glitter and falsehood about us, and 
so turned to the delicious stillness of this quiet wilderness — 
very long, my angel. Let us go back again. Perhaps we 
may find a faint shadowing of what we seek in the actions of 
men — in their virtue, their wisdom, or possibly their vices. 
It may be that His handiwork shall never fail; that the earth 
and the heavens are immutable ; and that we are to be free 
when my poor fallen brethren have received back upon their 
bosoms the marred image which he first left there, or when 
their continued sins have worn away its slightest traces. It 
may be that by wisdom they will gain a spirit-mastery, and so 
drop the cumbering clay and its defilements together, and then 
thou mayst return to thy home and take thy Zillah with thee. 
Let us go forth and look upon the work of mortals, and see if 
they are not writing their own destiny with their own hands." 

The angel was persuaded, and hand in hand the twain went 
forth upon their pilgrimage. 

The vision changed, and I again met the wanderers in a 
great city. A noisy rabble filled the streets, and the hoarse 
laugh and ribald jest passed freely as they hurried on. Zillah 
shrank from their infectious touch, and as she did so, I heard 
the angel whisper, " It could not have been worse in the an- 
cient cities which He destroyed by fire." But every minute 
the crowd became more dense, and as the multitude pressed 
in one direction, the pilgrims turned their heads and suffered 
themselves to be borne onward by it. It stopped beneath a 
scaffold, and the two strange spectators cast upon each other 
inquiring glances. 

" It is some merry-making for the rude populace," at last the 
angel remarked, " and lo ! yonder comes the harlequin." 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 261 

" Then he mimics woe," said Zillah, " for he seems in an 
agony of sufTering." 

In an agony of suffering indeed was the wretched criminal, 
as he crawled rather than walked across the scaffold, wringing 
his hands and uttering low, half-stifled sobs which- could not be 
mistaken. 

/ " It is no jest," said the angel, " and yet these men come as 
merrily as to a nuptial banquet. Can it be that these poor 
creatures of a day find food for mirth in a brother's suffering? " 

" See ! What are they doing with him ? " exclaimed Zillah 
in alarm. 

The arms were pinioned, the cap was drawn upon the head, 
and the executioner proceeded to adjust the cord. 

"It — it is a scene unfit for us!" said the angel shuddering, 
and averting his eye?, with horror. 

A minute after there was a movement in the crowd which 
made a sound like the sullen murmur of the sea ; and the 
laugh and jest went round as before while the soul of a man, 
a brother, was passing, with all the blackness of its fearful guilt 
upon it, into the fathomless future, and the presence of the 
Judge. Poor Zillah trembled like the lightly poised hare-bell 
in a storm ; there was a startled glance in her soft eye, her 
cheek became blanched, and her tongue faltered as she ex- 
claimed, 

" What can it mean ? Have they taken away his life, the 
little span which notwithstanding its briefness men love better 
than their souls ? " 

"Ay, my Zillah — his life ! The frail bark has been cut 
from its moorings to drift away upon the unknown ocean, by 
hands which even to-morrow will strive to cling to this cold 
shore and strive in vain. But this is not a fitting scene for 
thine eyes to look, upon, my bright bird of the sunshine, — 
nor mine — nor mine ! " he added in a low murmur. " Oh ! 
for my lost, earth-bartered wings ! " 

" Bartered for we," returned Zillah, in a tone no louder than 
her breath, but fraught with an exquisitely sad melody. 



262 ■ THE angel's pilgrimage. 

The angel answered only with a look, but it brought a tint 
to her cheek and a beautiful light to her eye. 

" And this is murder," she continued, after a moment's 
pause. 

" No ; not murder, but the terrible punishment of a terrible 
crime. When thy race, my poor Zillah, lost every trace of 
the image they first bore, and turned against each other like 
tlie wolves and tigers of the wilderness, the Great One passed 
a decree that blood alone should wash away the stain of hu- 
man blood ; and this man's hand was red with that which had 
flowed in the veins of his brother." 

" Ah ! the multitude should have veiled themselves in sack- 
cloth, and sprinkled the gray ashes upon the floors of their 
dwellings," said Zillah, her lip growing still paler, and quiv- 
ering with horror. " The entire people should have thronged 
the altar. Mourn, mourn, ye proud nation ! It is the son of 
your bosom whose baseness has required this terrible deed at 
your hands ; and He alone who ' rideth upon the wings of the 
wind,' whose ' pavilion is in the secret place,' knows how far 
the infection has spread. Alas ! my race ! my poor, degraded, 
ruined race ! " 

" This sad spectacle must'needs beget sad feelings," returned 
the angel, " and yet the thoughtless crowd make merry as at 
a bridal ; and those who come not here to regale their eyes 
with the sufferings of a brother, pass carelessly on, chaffer in 
the market-place, pore over the page, obey the beck of pleas- 
ure, and forget that another black, black seal is added to the 
degradation of man. Ah, my Zillah, the end is afar off. I 
catch no glimpse of the living waters ; my sight grows dim in 
this darkness, and my foot is heavy, very heavy." 

" Look ! " exclaimed ZiUah, '* the dead man is lowered to his 
coffin, and they all throng to look at him ; see how they jostle 
each other ! " 

" Ay ; and still they laugh and jest ' The red drop is at 
the heart of every one of them ; and they are now gorging 
the fiendish principle with blood which they dare not shed 
Let us hence." 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 263 

It was with difficulty that the angel and his companion 
extricated themselves from the brutal multitude — men who, 
seeming to snufF blood afar off, flock to see the spark of life 
extinguished on the heart's altar, and can be kept back only 
by high prison walls or the glitter of the bayonet. But at 
length they were free, and hastily did they move away from 
the scene of retribution and cruelty. 

" Alas ! for thy lost wings, my angel," sighed Zillah, when 
the frightful din had died away upon the ear. 

" The Waters of Life are not here," was the sorrowful 
reply, " not here in the midst of cruelty and blood j the heart 
of man is no better than at the beginning, and — it is no worse. 
The doom is not yet written, the book of good and evil is not 
yet sealed — how long ! how long ! " 

Another crowd now obstructed the way, swarming to an 
immense edifice, some eager, some careless — tradesmen talk- 
ing of the common business of the day, lawyers mooting dubi- 
ous points in wrangling tones, though usually with courteous 
words, boys with shrill voices hawking their various wares, 
and the rabble, as ever, jesting, laughing and jostling. Among 
the crowd were two persons discussing the execution of that 
morning. 

" They hurry the poor wretch into eternity unprepared, as 
though he were a dog or an ox ! It is barbarous ! " said one. 

" A relic of the dark ages," observed his companion ; " neces- 
sary in the infancy of time, when men were like the beasts of 
the field, and could be restrained only by the strong arm, but 
that philanthropic and enlightened statesmen of the nineteenth 
century" — 

His voice was lost to the ear of the angel, who had pressed 
on eagerly to catch the sound ; for after what he had beheld 
that morning, the knowledge that the whole human race was 
not intent on blood was grateful to him. 

" Those men have pity — let us follow them," he said to 
ZiUah. 

" But they pity only the red hand," was the reply ; " they 



264 THE angel's pilgrimage. 

said nothing of the bloody shroud, and the desolate hearth- 
stone." 

The two pilgrims pressed forward and entered at the door 
of a spacious apartment which was crowded to overflowing. 
A row of venerable persons occupied cushioned seats raised on 
a kind of dais at the extremity of a large room. On one side 
of these sat twelve men in busy conference, and on the other, 
a goodly number lolled over tables covered with green baize 
cloth, some yawning, and others biting the ends of their feather 
pens or fastening and unfastening them behind their ears. Two 
dark faces glowered on each other immediately below the 
cushioned seats ; and lower still, in a small square box, a per- 
son leaned forward, balancing on his elbows, and now prying 
into one face, and now another, with eyes which the angel 
trembled but to look upon. . At last, the twelve men rose, and 
a silence as of death brooded over that vast multitude. A 
question was asked by a mild gray-haired man from the dais, 
and a deep, heavy voice resounded throughout the hall of jus- 
tice, " Not Guilty." The crowd caught the sound, and peal 
on peal arose the deafening plaudits, the arched roof ringing 
back the sound, pausing to catch it again, and then replying, 
as though it had been a living voice answering from above. 

" This is a proud triumph," said a voice beside the pil- 
grims. 

" An innocent man, victim to some accident or slanderous 
tongue, doubtless," returned the angel, 

" No, no ; a greater scoundrel never trod the soil; never." 

" But he is innocent of this crime." 

"He is guilty, stranger, guilty ; everything has conspired 
to prove it, and not a man. in this room but is morally con- 
vinced of the fact." 

" How, then, has he escaped ? " 

" By the help of yon lawyer's quibbles." 

" A partaker of his crimes, 1 suppose," remarked the angel. 

"He, a partaker of his crimes ! he, the most honorable lawyer 
m the nation." 

"I am a stranger," remarked the angel, apologetically; 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 265 

" and I would fain know why this honorable man soils his soul 
for the sake of the guilty, and why you and all this multitude 
rejoice to see crime go out from your midst free to gather 
about itself still more filth and blackness." 

" We rejoice in the exercise of mercy," returned the 
stranger. 

" ' Shall man then dare to shiver 

The mystic golden howl 7 
Send back unto its Giver 

The God-bom deathless soul ? 
Shall he the frail spark smother, 

All earth cannot re-light ? 
His weak, sin-heavy brother 

Cast from his holier right ?' 

" No, no ! we are enlightened people, and the law of blood 
is distasteful to us." 

" Is then the law abolished among you ? " inquired the angel, 
somewhat anxiously. 

" Not abolished ; there are wolves and tigers still in the land 
and they cry for vengeance in the name of the God of mercy. 

" • Ay, from earth the blood-stained banish, 

Snatch away his little time ? 
'T is noble sure to punish 

By copying the crime ! 
Heap the sods upon his breast, 

Crush him down in all his sin ! ' — 

" Woe, woe, to such a blood-thirsty spirit ! Thank God, 
however, that the murderous iron rule is gradually yielding to 
the voice of mercy, and the law of love is prevailing. ' God 
is love.' " 

" God is just ! " echoed the angel, as he turned to depart. 

" They disobey the express coimnand of the Almighty, given 
before the framing of the nations," said Zillah, " and bring an 
attribute of his oAvn holy character as an excuse." 

" Their justice is cruel and heartless," answered the angel, 

and their mercy is weak and.wicked. Love and justice wait 

hand in hand before the Great White Throne ; but these men 

cannot link them together, for their eyes are darkened, and 

VOL. 11. 23 



266 THE angel's pilgrimage. 

heavy clouds are gathered about their souls. We need not 
search further, Zillah." 

"Nay, a little longer — a little longer," pleaded the soft 
voice; "perchance they have a treasure, a talisman, a seed 
of good which we have not yet discovered. I feel that this 
distorted law of love has gro-\vii out of a holy principle which 
may even now be swelling and bursting from the rubbish. I 
will follow thee no longer, my angel, for my heart is sick and 
my foot weary; but tread thou these fearful paths, search thou 
for the hidden fountain, and when thou hast gained a sprink- 
ling of its waters, fly to me and teU me time has ended. It is 
here, it is somewhere here. I feel its life-giving presence." 

For many days and nights the angel wandered in dark dens 
of wickedness, his purer nature quivering and shrinking at the 
sounds of blasphemy. His foot followed in the track of the 
crouching, prowling assassin ; his ear listened to the voice of 
the midnight robber; the thief brushed him as he crossed his 
path, and the vile, the polluted of every grade passed before 
his eyes like so many demons of the pit. The air grew heavy 
with sin, and clogged his breath ; his frame drooped, for there 
was a weight upon it far heavier than fatigue could cast; 
even the rays of the sun struggled and grew ghastly in such 
pollution, and the stars seemed red and bleared. 

Then he turned to brighter scenes, scenes on which the sun 
dared shine, not indeed in his first purity, clear and soft like 
the light of Paradise, but with a wild brilliance, which, while 
it dazzled the eyes, and withered the young plants that the 
dews neglected to visit, bore yet a fair promise of seed-time 
and harvest, day and night, to the hearts of men. 

But even here was the villain's heart mantled in hypocrisy, 
here prowled the disguised wolf, here towered the beautiful 
marble above reeking bones and the foul mould of Death. In 
this brave light Revenge stalked up and down, an honorable 
and an honored guest. Here Avarice spread a yellow crust 
upon the heart, Avhich burned in, and seared, and grew thicker, 
and gnawed at every chord that might have sounded a tuneful 
cadence, still increased in thickness till there was no power to 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 267 

resist it from within; and then from the fearful gangrene 
sprang a brood of crimes, all veiled indeed, all proper and legal, 
which made the angel recoil as fi"om the less refined, but scarce 
blacker ones that swarmed the dens he had left. Here too 
lurked fair Envy smiling and flattering, until she could place 
her foot upon the victim's head, and then down ! crush ! crush ! 
— no pity, no remorse. Nay ; why should mortal head dare 
rise higher than hers ! Among flowers of the richest fragrance 
and brightest hue coiled Scandal, and when her serpent hiss 
rose upon the air, the flowers drooped, and their perfume was 
mingled with her noisome breath. 

"It is all in vain — all in vain!" sighed the angel, as he 
returned again to his companion. " The heart of man remains 
the same as when this now degraded hand wielded the sword 
which guarded the gate of Eden ; dark thoughts, violent pas- 
sions, wicked imaginings all lurk within him, all are fostered 
and cherished in his bosom. And yet, my Zillah, there is 
something, or the foreshadowing of something — a veiled star, 
a pale light fringing the cloud, a low murmur as from the 
concealed fountain, a breath of pure air ever and anon stirring 
the seared leaves, and passing over the pulses of my soul. 
There is something, Zillah, which had well nigh made me hear 
the rustle of my own wings, and fixed my eyes on Paradise. 
I cannot tell what it is, but I feel it — I feel it." 

" Even so do I," returned the fair Zillah, " and for that was 
it that I chose this spot. I have builded me an altar, and 
here, my angel, have I worshipped while thou hast been 
seeking." 

" I have sought in vain — all in vain," returned the angel 
mournfully ; " Oh ! when will the end be ? " 

" '^And then shall the end come ! ' " answered a deep melodi- 
ous voice which made Zillah start and the angel open his large, 
mild, mournful eyes in wonder. 

The figure that stood beside them might have risen from 
the shivering piles of withered leaves which the wantoning 
night-wind had thrown up in heaps along the plain ; or shaped 
itself from the mist that dangled in long gray wreaths from 



268 THE angel's pilgrimage. 

the tops of chimneys, hovered in great shadowy wings around 
silent windows, or rolled up, fold on fold, like an ominous cur- 
tain from the reeking earth. It was that of a man, but not 
such as walk the world in modern times. His beard was 
parted upon the lip, and descended, a mass of waving silver, 
to the girdle ; and long floating locks, like the snow in white- 
ness, shaded his scarce wrinkled brow, beneath which looked 
out a pair of eyes as soft, mild, blue and dewy as the sky of 
a summer evening. The angel felt his heart irresistibly drawn 
back to the time when he was sinless, for there was something 
pure and spirit-like upon the face of the stranger, which, 
though it lacked the loftiness of a brother angel, was yet so 
beautiful, so meek, and so full of love, that the highest seraph 
would scarce have lost by the exchange. He was evidently 
old, very old ; but it was such age as the father of our race 
might have exhibited, when eight centuries had passed over 
him and left him still unscathed. His voice was deep, strong, 
and mellifluous ; his eye undimmed ; his cheek full, though 
lacking somewhat the roundness of youth ; his lip ruddy, his 
frame muscular and erect, and his foot firm. Still he was old, 

— that could not be doubted ; but Time had never touched 
him with palsied finger; no blight had reached sinew, or 
brain, or heart, and every year that had passed over him had 
brought new strength and vigor. 

" ' And then shall the end come !' " be repeated in fervid 
tones; while a deep enthusiasm kindled in every feature a 
voiceless eloquence, 

"When, father?" inquired the angel reverently. 

" When the commandment shall have been obeyed, when 
the work is accomplished" — 

" What conunandment ? what work ? Are we to search ? 
to dig ? If thou knowest where this fountain flows, tell me, 
oh, teU me ! I will climb the most inaccessible rock, I will 
penetrate the cave where sleeps the deadliest miasma, with 
my single hand I will open a passage to the core of the earth 

— only tell me where to seek, and I will ask no more." 

The stranger fixed a wondering and yet benign glance upon 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 269 

the perturbed countenance of the angel. " And dost thou not 
know ? " 

" No, no ; but tell me, and I will bless thee forever ! " 

" Nay, bless Him — Him ! Surely thou hast heard of the 
Glorious Ransom." 

" I have heard," whispered the angel, in deep awe, " but it 
was THERE ; and even our harps and voices were silent. I 
dare not speak of that where the air is so heavy with the 
weight of earth's defilements. And it can never come to 7??e." 

" To thee ! there is not a human being" — 

" Nay, nay, old man ; thou dost not understand thine own 
words. But tell me of the end. I see something upon thy 
forehead unlike the brand of thy miserable race, and I think 
the golden secret lies in thy bosom. I would fain know when 
this weary pilgrimage will be finished." 

The venerable ancient fixed his penetrating eye for a mo- 
ment on his companion, whispering to himself, " And he too ! 
it cannot be ! I thought myself alone ! " and then, evidently 
puzzled, though more than pleased to recite a story in which 
his whole soul was interested, he commenced ; 

" Eighteen hundred years ago Rome was at the height of 
her glory. All the principal nations of the earth owned her 
sway and gloried in their bondage. The redder forms of tyr- 
anny had departed. The brow of Octavius Augustus was 
mild beneath his crown ; while under the patronage of the 
wise Mecenas, and by the taper of Grecian genius, the loftiest 
forms of art were born and flourished. The voice of eloquence 
sounded in the forum, the flowers of poesy budded and blos- 
somed in palace and in cot, life sprang from the silent marble, 
the canvass glowed, and Philosophy linked arms with Pleas- 
ure, and wandered about her sacred groves, or dallied in her 
luxurious gardens. But He ivas iwt a Roman. On her proud 
brow the Queen of the Nations wore the half-crushed chaplet 
of Grecian liberty, a beautiful wreath dropping with the match- 
less perfume which still lingers around her broken columns 
and crumbling arches, around the spiritual ideal breathing in 
the creations of her artists, and around the graves of her phi- 

voL. n. 23=»^ 



270 



THE ANGEL'S PILGRIMAGE. 



losophers, her poets and her statesmen. But He was not of 
Greece. In one proud hand Rome held a jewel unequalled in 
gorgeousness, a golden lotus gathered from the banks of the 
Nile, and now crimsoned by the blood of the beautiful and 
perfidious Cleopatra ; and in the other she clasped a rude but 
strong and valuable chain whose rough links bore the names 
of Gaul, Germany and Switzerland. But He came from none. 
of these. 

" The mistress of the world felt quivering beneath her san- 
dalled foot, and pressed more f^osely as it quivered, a strange 
nation, with strange iavv-&, strange customs and a strange 
religion, despised alike by the Roman, the Greek and the 
Egyptian, small in territory, divided within itself, weak in 
arms, and learned but in its own laws. This was the once 
favored nation of the Jews. Jerusalem, fallen, degraded, en- 
slaved, still bore some traces of ancient splendor. There stood 
the Holy Temple, though desecrated by Mammon ; the chil- 
dren of the prophets still gathered in their synagogues ; and 
the proud Pharisee swept in his fringed garments from the 
council chamber to the altar, lounged on rich cushions, and 
quaffed the blood of the grape from goblets of massive gold 
and richly chased silver. But He claimed not his hoTne in 
Jerusalem. In Galilee, in despised, contemned Galilee, and 
not its fairest city — not Capernaum, not Cana — but in 
poor, mean, hated, contemptible Nazareth — there sprang the 
Fountain of Life ; there, from that dark, unknown corner, 
from that smallest, most degraded city of the most degraded 
quarter of the earth. He, the Mighty One, the King of Glory, 
walked forth and named himself the Son of man, the Saviour 
of a fallen, helpless, miserable race." 

"I know Him — I know Him," murmured the angel, bend- 
ing his knee and shading his brow with his hand. " Go on," 
he added after a moment's pause ; " go on ; tell me more ; it 
cannot reach me, but — my poor Zillah ! — tell me aU." 

" He sought meanness of origin and poverty, not because 
there was virtue in these, but for the sake of the lowly poor," 
continued the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye lighting 



THE angel's pilgrdiage. 271 

excitement of his theme. " His mother was the betrothed 
bride of a poor carpenter, his cradle was in a stable — His, the 
soverei^ Prince of the Universe ! But a choir of angels 
came to rouse the earth to sing his welcome ; a new star was 
set upon the brow of night, and in its light the magii of the 
East, the philosophers of the Persian court, bent in worship 
to the clay-shrined God ; and a haughty monarch so trembled 
in his kingly purple, when he heard of the obscure infant, that 
hundreds of tiny graves were opened, each stained by the 
blood of the helpless and moistened by a mother's tears." 

" Go .on ! go on ! " whispered the angel. 

" The humble Nazarene put on the tasseled robe of a 
teacher, but he turned not to the palace for his disciples, nor 
lingered he by the proud door of the Sanliedrim. He wan- 
dered by the lone Galilean lake, he sought those places where 
men never look for honor, calling the unlettered and the lowly 
to his side, the ignorant fisherman from his nets, and the de- 
spised publican from liis scrip. And yet this obscure man, 
with these humble followers, stirred at once proud, pompous 
Jewry to her centre. He toiled and suffered, toiled and suf- 
fered, and wept, and then he died, as none but malefactors 
ever died before." 

The old man paused in his story, as though too much agi- 
tated to proceed ; while the angel echoed in mingled awe and 
surprise, " He died ! He could not die ! " 

"He — he was borne to his sepulchre," continued the meek 
ancient, "but the grave could not hold the Son of God. He 
died for its, he rose for us, and he waits us at the right liand of 
his FatJier" 

There was a long, unbroken, almost breathless silence, — 
Zillah bending forward in meek awe, her brow pressed to tnc 
altar, the face of the angel buried reverentially in his folded 
arms, and the patriarch standing with upraised eye and clasped 
hands, his face glowing with love and rapture. 

"And the ransomed — when will He call them home?" at 
last the angel inquired. 

" They drop into the grave at morning, in the blaze of day; 



272 THE angel's pilgkbiage. 

and at midnight; every hour, every moment — even- now 
while we speak, some freed spirit is passing, and there are 
snowy wings that hover at the portal of death to bear it away 
to Paradise." 

"But when will He call all? when will the end be?" in- 
quired the angel, with tremulous eagerness. 

" Thou wouldst know when will arise the cry of the angel, 
' I'hrust in thy sharp sickle, and gather the clusters of the vine 
of the earth ; for her grapes are fully ripe.' But futurity has 
tlie secret hidden deep in the folds of her misty robes, and 
neither man nor angel may rob her of the treasure. Yet, my 
son, I can give thee the key, and if" — 

" Quick ! quick ! " 

"He told us — He — He taught." The old man paused, 
composed his features, and resumed : " To those disciples 
called from the wayside, from the boat of the fisherman and 
lowly roof of the laborer, rude, unlettered, and of no repute 
among men, whose hands had never touched the soft palm of 
the Pharisee, and whose voices had learned to tremble and 
falter in such an august presence — to these lowest of the sons 
of this world, He confided the wealth of heaven, such rare 
jewels of truth as never before glittered beneath the stars ; and 
these humble, unknown men He commissioned to bear their 
treasures to all the nations of the earth. At Jerusalem they 
began, and tower and temple trembled to their deep founda- 
tions. Thence they scattered their living pearls over hill and 
vale, far and wide, wherever the foot of man had trodden or 
lay the stain of sin. 

" Even Grecian philosophy bent her polished ear when a 
follower of the Crucified stood in one of the proudest courts 
of Athens, and Epicurean and Stoic were alike confounded by 
the simple but sublime eloquence of truth. Rome, too, proud 
Rome acknowledged the still small voice which had stolen up 
from far Nazareth ; but when she strove to honor it with pur- 
ple and crimson the voice died among the caves and dens of 
the wilderness, the jewel receded from her grasp, while she 
placed its blazing semblance on her forehead, and all Europe 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 273 

bowed the knee to the falsehood. But while in the name of 
the crucified Nazarene, who trod the earth in sadness and dis- 
honor, the princes of the earth drew the lance, and knight and 
noble paved the way to his own emolument, while war and 
carnage ran riot throughout Christendom, and Jew and Sara- 
cen were taught to despise the religion which turned men into 
beasts of prey and deformed the face of creation; from distant 
caves and lowly valleys the meek voice of prayer still arose, 
and still the casket of the jewels of truth was the human heart. 
Through the red blood flowing at the mandate of Egj'ptian 
priest and Roman pontiff; through the crevices of the rocks 
of Switzerland, the hidden nooks environing the valley of 
Piedmont, the republican plains of Germany, and the wild, 
picturesque mountains of Scotland; through wrong without 
ruth, through the dungeon and the rack, through the bloody 
knife and blazing faggot, these jewels of truth, these Waters 
of Life have been borne " — 

"And now! where are they now ? " interrupted the angel, 
with almost vehement earnestness. 

" Dost thou see yon church-spire, piercing the gray mist and 
glittering in the one pale ray which the moon sheds from her 
veiled throne ? Go thither and love, and raise thy wings 
heavenward. Or here," lifting the folds of his robe and dis- 
closing a small volume ; " here the Waters spring ; here the 
Tree of Life flourishes. Search ! thou will find its blossoms 
on every page." 

"Not for me! Alas! not for me!" murmured the angel, 
while Zillah, raising her forehead from the altar where it had 
rested, and extending her hands, eagerly exclaimed, " For 
me ! for me ! to fit me for the day when thy wings, my angel, 
shall be full of glory, that we may mount together to the 
throne of the Eternal. But, father, I would fain know when 
that may be. We are to tread the earth until that hour." 

" And I," returned the ancient, " have the same pilgrimage 
before me," 

" But when, oh when shall it be accomplished ? " 



274 THE angel's pilgrimage. 

" Not until every altar like this thou hast reared shall be 
cast down." 

Zillah raised a startled eye to the face of the patriarch, and 
cast herself precipitately before the altar. 

" What ! have I not told thee that the Great Sacrifice has 
been offered, and may not my testimony be believed ? Did I 
not stand beside the cross, and, while bidden to tarry till a sec- 
ond coming, see the sinless victim bleed ? What wouldst thou 
more ? Canst thou not make the sacrifice thine own ? Faith 
and love alone are required of thee — wilt thou not believe ? " ' 

Zillah remained still meekly bending before the altar, but : 
her thoughts had risen far above it. The light of truth was 
slowly breaking over her countenance, illuminating each fea- 
ture with a deep, subdued enthusiasm, tiU the frail, beautiful 
daughter of earth seemed to bear more traces of heaven than 
the exiled angel. 

" Every false altar must be cast down," continued the an- 
cient; "the commandment must be obeyed; the Fountain of 
Life must gush forth in the midst of every people ; the jewels 
of truth, borne through suffering and blood till nearly half the 
world acknowledges their beauty, must be scattered freely 
over every portion of the globe, and far above the standards 
of the nations must float the banner of the Crucified. He that 
was God, was man, and is the God of glory henceforth and 
forever. The mighty work intrusted to us at that holy part- 
ing moment must be accomplished, ' and then shall the end 
come.'" 

" I too will go forth upon this holy mission," said Zillah, 
bowing her head meekly ; " perchance my weak hand may be 
blest, since to all that share in the salvation has the sweet 
work been intrusted." 

" And I cannot loiter here," returned the angel, " though I 
have forfeited my right to be in any way a ministering spirit 
to the race. Go thou, my Zillah, and I will hover in thy 
footsteps, I will nurse the flowers thou lovest, and scatter their 
perfume in thy pathway. When evil is near, I will shield 
thy loved head ; I will watch by thy side during the remain 



THE angel's pilgrimage. 275 

der of this fearful night, and when the morning at last dawns 
thou shalt know its approach by the ray which falls upon thy 
angel's renovated pinions. To the work, my Zillah ; it is one 
which will ennoble even thee." 

The mild old man smiled ; and I almost fancied that I saw 
something stirring at the side of the angel, a.s though every 
fresh consecration of ransomed mortal brought nearer the houi 
of final triumph ; and then the entire vision vanished. 

I was leaning from my window as an hour previous ; but 
the little girl stood no longer upon the bridge, and Strawberry 
Hill and the hoary old trees above it were slumbering in soft 
summer shadows. The moon, now a soft silver crescent, had 
climbed far up her azure pathway, and lay a sweet smile upon 
the face of the sky, and the earth was smiling back a beauti- 
ful response in every dew-drop. For a moment I thought the 
creatures of my drama were about me, but in the next I knew 
that Zillah and her angel were born of the wildest fiction ; 
and that the ashes of the beloved disciple, if not mingled with 
the farthest elements, still slept at Ephesus. But much, very 
much, had mingled in my thoughts in which dreaming had no 
part. And as I carefully separated the threads of fiction that 
hud entangled themselves in the richer woof of truth, I longed 
to exclaim, in the words of my fabulous Ziflah, " I too will go 
forth upon this holy mission ! " 



276 



THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 

God " bowed the heavens and came down," and breathed 
upon the earth; and a "living soul" was born. It was not 
an angel, to watch over the destinies of man, and interpose its 
white wing between him and evil ; but it was a thing aa 
lovely ; and so it looked about to find itself a fit dwelling- 
place. While it paused in doubt, there came fluttering by ai 
gay, beautiful creature, its bright wings woven in the loomi 
from which the Iris sprung, all glittering in gold and crimson, 
now bathing in the dew and now in the sun-light, brilliant! 
and blithesome, and light as the air on which it balanced.. 
The spirit grew glad at the pretty sight, and as the tiny won- 
der again swept past, it thought within itself, " Wliat a delight- 
ful thing to be a butterfly!" Instantly, a pair of gorgeous < 
wings sprouted from the thought; and the embodied spirit; 
flew exultingly up and down the earth, careering in the light, 
and glorying in its new-found beauties. Sometimes it paused 
to peep into the hearts of the young flowers ; and sipped dain- 
tily the sweets which dwelt on their fresh lips, and fanned 
them when they drooped, and bathed in their perfume ; and 
at night it folded up its wings and made its couch where the 
moon-beam lay most lovingly. But it could not sleep. That 
was a breath from heaven, stirring those gorgeous wings, the 
"living soul" within, swelling and struggling, conscious that: 
it was not performing its mission. There could not be a 
orighter nor gayer life, and surely the innocent little butterfly 
was not guilty of doing harm ; but there was a chiding voice- 
came up from within, and the dissatisfied spirit could not! 
sleep. Finally, it grew sorrowful, even in the midst of its- 
light companions, as they poised and reeled in the sunlight, 
intoxicated by the mere bliss of living. And every day it; 
grew more and more sorrowful, and its wings heavier, till at; 



THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 277 

last it cried out in sharp anguish. Beautiful and innocent 
was the life of the gay insect ; but the God-born spirit was 
not created to waste itself on a sunbeam or a flower ; and 
those magnificent wings were leaden fetters to it. A bird 
was carolling on the tree above, and, as the saddened spirit 
looked up, it thought of the happy hearts which the little 
songster made, and how it praised God in its light joyousness, 
and then exclaimed, pantingly, " What a sweet thing to be a 
ibird ! " 

1 A little child found a dead butterfly at the foot of the red 
[maple tree, that morning; and as she stooped to pick it up, 
there came such a gush of melody from the green aboxna, 
that she started back in pleased astonishment ; and then, 
clapping her soft hands together, she raised her infantile voice 
in clear, ringing tones, fraught with the music of a mirthful 
heart. On the instant, there came a rushing sound from the 
massive foliage ; a pair of beautiful wings broke thence, and 
balanced for a moment above ; then descended, hovering 
about the head of the child, as though bestowing some word- 
less blessing; and, finally, spread themselves for flight. The 
bird paused where the laborer rested at noon-tide ; and the 
eye of the strong man brightened as he wiped the sweat 
away, and leaned against the rugged bark of the meadow-tree, 
yielding himself up to the delicious influence of its music. 
Then it flew to the casement of the invalid, and thence to the 
roof-tree of the cotter ; and thence it still pursued its way 
kindly and lovingly, pausing to warble a moment even by the 
barred window of the criminal. For many a day, the bird- 
embodied spirit was happy and contented, and believed itself 
Bent upon earth but for the purpose of winning men, by such 
smaJ, sweet efforts, from sorrow. But, as it nestled one 
night in the foliage of the forest tree, there came a sad mis- 
giving, to trouble it. It had heard of a nobler mission than it 
had yet dared to contemplate ; it had looked into a path toil- 
some, and difficult to walk in, stre\vn with thorns, and beset 
with dangers ; but yet glorious in that it had been trodden by 
a Holy One, who had linked it to heaven. The timid spirit 
VOL. II. 24 



278 THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 

trembled as it thought, and folded its soft pinions over its 
breast, and strove to recollect all the good it had done that 
day — how it had softened the nature of the sinful, and 
dropped balm into the bosom of the sorrowing ; but it could 
not shut down the high aspirations which were swelling 
within it. It knew well that the spirit of the little bird was 
not, like itself, an emanation from the Deity. When the song 
was hushed, and the plumage drooped, it would " go down- 
ward to the earth ;" but the living soul, born of the breath of 
the Almighty, could not so perish. Should it fling aside its 
loftier gifts, and take upon itself the mission (sweet and beauti- 
ful though that mission might be) of the soulless bird ? " Ah, 
no I " thought the pretty warbler, while its wings seemed 
swelling to eagle's pinions; "the air is full of birds — the 
world is ringing with melody — it is delightful- to swell the 
care-free chorus ; but there is a higher, nobler mission, still." 
As its breast heaved with these new emotions, a soft sound, 
as of a lute, stole up from a neighboring grove, and an exqui- 
sitely modulated voice, with deep earnestness, clothed its 
secret thoughts in words : 

" I waste no more in idle dreams, my life, my soul away ; 
I wake to know my better self— I wake to watch and pray. 
Thought, feeling, time, on idols vain I 've lavished all too long ; 
Henceforth, to holier purposes I pledge myself, my song ! 
Oh, still within the inner veil, upon the spirit's shrine, 
Still, unprofaned by evil, burns the one pure spark divine, 
Which God has kindled in us all, and be it mine to tend 
Henceforth, with vestal thought and care, the light that lamp may lend, 

" I shut mine eyes, in grief and shame, upon the dreary past. 
My heart, my soul, poured recklessly on dreams that could not last, 
My bark has drifted down the stream, at will of wind or wave, 
An idle, light, and fragile thing, that few had cared to save. 
Henceforth, the tiller Truth shall hold and steer as Conscience tells 
And I will brave the storms of fate, though wild the ocean swells. 
I know my soul is strong and high, if once I give it sway ; 
I feel a glorious power within, though light I seem, and gay. 
O, laggard soul ! unclose thine eyes. No more in luxury soft 
Of joy ideal waste thyself! Awake, and soar aloft! 
Unfurl, this hour, those falcon wings wliich thou dost fold too long; 
Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze, and sing the loftiest song."* 

* Mrs. Osgood. 



THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. 279 

The song ceased, and the struggling, God-horn spirit, 
looked down on the cold earth ; and, not forgetting toil, and 
suffering, and weariness — not forgetting the degradation of 
sin, and the constant wrestling of the higher with the baser 
nature — exclaimed, with deep enthusiasm, " What a sublime 
thing to be a man ! " 

A songster was missed from the woodland ; and that same 
day knelt one in prayer ; and then, humble, but strong, and 
happier far than butterfly or bird, went cheerfully fcrtn on 
man's great mission — to do good. 



280 



TO MY FATHER. 

A WELCOME for thy child, father, 

A welcome give to-day ; 
Although she may not come to thee 

As when she went away ; 
Though never in that olden nest 

Is she to fold her wing. 
And live again the days when first 

She learned to fly and sing. 

Oh, happy were those days, father, 

When, gathering round thy knee, 
Seven sons and daughters called thee sire ; 

We come again — but three ; 
The grave has claimed thy loveliest ones, 

And sterner things than death 
Have cast a shadow on thy brow, 

A sigh upon thy breath. 

And one — one of the three, father, 

Now comes to thee to claim 
Thy blessing on another lot, 

Upon another name ; 
Where tropic suns forever burn, 

Far over land and wave. 
The child whom thou hast loved would make 

Her hearth-stone and her grave. 

Thou 'It never wait again, father. 

Thy daughter's coming tread ; 
She ne'er will see thy face on earth, 

So count her with thy dead ; 



TO MY FATHER. 2SI 

But in the land of life and love, 

Not sorrowing as now, 
She '11 come to thee, and come, perchance, 

With jewels on her brow. 

Perchance; — I do not know, father, 

If any part be given 
My untaught liand among the guides 

Who point the way to heaven ; 
But it would be a joy untold 

Some erring foot to stay ; 
Remember this, when gathering round, 

Ye for the exile pray. 

Let nothing here be changed, father; 

I would remember all, 
Where every ray of sunshine rests, 

And where the shadows fall. 
And now I go ; with faltering foot 

I pass the threshold o'er. 
And gaze through tears on that dear roof, 

My shelter never-more. 
VOL. n. 24* 



FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 

" Farewell : 
I may not dwell 
'Mid flowers and music ever." 

The hours of my childhood have gone back to their old 
obliviousness in eternity; youth is on the wing, fleeing — 
fleeing — fleeing. There is but a narrow shadow lying 
between my foot and the grave which it seeks — a veil of gray 
mist, that a few to-days will dissolve into — what ? — the 
sickening perfume of dead flowers, or incense grateful to 
Heaven ? 

This is a beautiful, bright world, made for pure beings. 
At its birth angels walked among its cool shadows, bent to 
its bright waters, and inhaled its perfumes; and they fled 
not, those holy ones, till their wings drooped beneath the 
defiling heaviness of sin. A false breath played upon the 
brow of man ; heedlessly he opened his bosom to it ; and 
there it at once nestled, a fatal poison, ever distilling venom. 
Still the flowers bloomed ; still the waters flashed and 
sparkled in the warm light; still the breezes waved their 
censers laden with rich perfume ; still the birds carolled ; the 
stars smiled ; leaves rustled, kissing each other lovingly ; 
dews slumbered in lily bells and the hearts of roses, and 
crept around withering roots, and revived fading petals ; the 
sun, and the moon, and the silver twilight, each wrought its 
own peculiar broidery on earth and sky ; but upon the flow- 
ers, and the fresh leaves, and the waters, and the breezes, 
the gay, beautiful birds, and the silent dews, on sun, and 
moon, and stars, on all, everything of earth, rested the taint 
of sin. In the morning of this little day of time, what more 
deliciously sweet than to recline among the blossoming luxu- 



FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 283 

nance of Eden, and worship God, there, in his own temple ? It 
was the object of life to enjoy its own blissfulness, and praise 
Him who gave it. But when, on the whisper of the Tempter, 
sin came, it brought a change. The poison hid itself among 
all the beautiful things that we most love, engendering thorns 
and producing discord : it festered in our hearts, revelled in 
our veins, and polluted our lips, until the angels veiled their 
faces in disgust, and man was left with " no eye to pity, no 
arm to save." Then, from the dense cloud, broke forth a ray 
of glory ; a crowned Head looked out in pity ; divine lips 
bent to the poisoned Avound ; and lost, ruined man found a 
Saviour. He was heralded by angels ; angels are still whis- 
pering, "Look! look! live!" that Saviour is standing with 
love-beaming eyes and arms extended; but men are blind 
and cannot see his beauty. Shall I sit down among thy 
flowers, sweet Alderbrook, while my Redeemer is dishonored, 
and my brethren, the sons of those who walked with God 
in Eden, die ? 

"Faultless, if blinded?"— " The just God will not be 
angry with those who, not knowing, have not loved him ?" 
i Who has said it ? 

' Ah! '^'^ The hivisible thi7igs of Him from the creation of the 
\ world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that 
are made, even his eternal poiver and Godhead ; so that they 
are without excuse." The beautiful page of hill and dale 
and sky is spread open to all. I go to teach my brother how 
to read it. 

Dear, beautiful Alderbrook ! I have loved thee as I shall 
never love any other thing that I may not meet after the sun 
of Time is set. Everything, from the strong old tree that 
wrestles with the tempest, down to the amber moss-cup 
cradling the tiny insect at its roots, and the pebble sleeping 
at the bottom of the brook, — everything about thee has been 
laden with its own peculiar lesson. Thou art a rare book, 
my Alderbrook, written all over by the Creator's finger. 
Dearly do I love the holy truths upon thy pages ; but, " I 
ntiay not dwell 'mid flowers and music ever ;" and I go 



284 FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK. 

hence, bearing another, choicer book in my hand, and echo- 
ing the words of the angels, " Look ! look ! live ! " 

I stand on the verge of the brook, which seems to me more 
beautiful than any other brook on earth, and take my last 
survey of the home of my infancy. The cloud, which has 
been hovering above the trees on the verge of heaven, opens ; 
the golden light gushes forth, bathing the hill-top, and stream- 
ing down its green declivity even to my feet ; and I accept 
the encouraging omen. The angel of Alderbrook, " the min- 
istering spirit" sent hither by the Almighty, blesses me. 
Father in heaven, thy blessing, ere I go ! 

Hopes full of glory, and oh, most sweetly sacred ! look out 
upon me from the future ; but, for a moment, their beauty is 
clouded. My heart is heavj'' with sorrow. The cup at my 
lip IS very bitter. Heaven help me ! White hairs are bend- 
ing in submissive grief, and age-dimmed eyes are made 
dimmer by the gathering of tears. Young spirits have lost 
their joyousness, young lips forget to smile, and bounding 
hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, the rending of ties, 
knitted at the first opening of the infant eye and strengthened 
by numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing ! To make 
the grave the only door to a meeting with those in whose 
bosoms we nestled, in whose hearts we trusted long before 
we knew how precious was such love and trust, brings with 
it an overpowering weight of solemnity. But a grave is 
yawning for each one of us ; and is it much to choose whether 
we sever the tie that binds us here, to-day, or lie do^vn on the 
morrow? Ah, the " weaver's shuttle" is flying; the " flower 
of the grass " is withering ; the span is almost measured ; the 
tale nearly told ; the dark valley is close before us — tread we 
with care ! 

My mother, we may neither of us close the other's dark- 
ened eye, and fold the cold hands upon the bosom; we 
may neither of us watch the sod greening and withering 
above the other's ashes ; but there are duties for us even 
more sacred than these. But a few steps, mother — diffi- 
cult the path may be, but very bright — and then we put 



FAREWELL TO ALDERBROOK 2S5 

on the robe of immortality, and meet to part nevermore 
And we shall not be apart even on earth. There is an elec 
trie chain passing from heart to heart through the throne of 
the Eternal; and we may keep its links all brightly bur 
nished by the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, mother 
as in days gone by. — Thou bidst me go. The smile comes 
again to thy lip and the light to thine eye, for thou hast plea 
sure in the sacrifice. Thy blessing ! Farewell, my mother, 
and ye loved ones of the same hearth-stone ! 

Bright, beautiful, dear Alderbrook, farewell ! 

Fannt Foeestek, 

June 1, 1846. 



END OF VOL. O. 



3W7-9 



